THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


Eureka 

M' VE  waited — Lo !  these  many  years 
I  've  looked,  with  eyes  a-swim  in  tears, 
While  hoping,  groping,  lost  my  way ; 
I  found  the  Roycroft  Shops  one  day, 
When  Fra  Elbertus  took  my  hand, 
And  smiling  said,  "I  understand" — 
And  so  this  "BRONCHO  BOOK"  I  send, 
With  Love  and  Blessings  of  Your  Friend, 

In  Clouds  or  Sunshine. 


[  TSe 

f 

Broncho  Book 

• 

Being  Buck-Jumps  in  Verse  by 
CAPTAIN  JACK  CRAWFORD 

Roped  for  relief  of  the  author,  the  diver- 

tisement  of  tenderfeet,  and  the  joy 

of  all  those  who  love  God's 

Great  Out -of -Doors 


Our 


Corralled  into  a  volume  by  The  Roycrofters  at 
their  Book  Ranch,  which  is  in  East  Aurora,  on 
Buffalo  Creek  3*  Nineteen  Hundred  and  Eight 


Copyright 

by  John  Wallace  Crawford 
1908 


TO  THOMAS  F.  WALSH 

My  companion  of  the  camp,  the  cabin  and  the  trail. 

;  DEDICATE  this  crude  bouquet 

Of  simple  song  and  story; 
I've  culled  it  all  along  life's  way, 
I  've  sprinkled  it  with  nature's  spray, 
And  should  it  win  some  wayward  stray, 
To  God  be  all  the  glory. 

And  while  I  fling  it  in  the  crude, 

It  took  some  heart  to  win  it. 
My  one  ambition  was  for  good 
With  Faith  and  Hope  and  Love  imbued, 
And  though  it  be  misunderstood, 

Dear  Tom,  my  heart  is  in  it. 

Yours  in  clouds  or  sunshine, 
JOHN  WALLACE  CRAWFORD, 
"  CAPTAIN  JACK." 


626080 


HE  BRONCHO  BOOK 


To  Thomas  F.  Walsh 

C£  A  few  rhyme-thoughts  suggested  by  our  meeting 
after  many  years  have  whirled  off  the  reel  of  time  since 
the  old  days  when  we  drank  from  the  same  black  coffee 
pot  in  the  shadow  of  the  Black  Hills. 

i  EAR  comrade,  my  soul  is  busted, 
This  big  broncho  soul  of  mine, 
With  its  sunny  glow 
And  its  afterflow 
Of  love  and  laughter  and  rhyme, 
Of  love  for  all  that  is  beautiful, 

The  good  and  the  brave  and  true — 
There  was  no  disguise 
In  your  honest  eyes 
When  I  last  shook  hands  with  you. 

Together  again  at  the  camp-fire 
We  sat  in  its  ruddy  glow, 
And  my  heart  went  out 
On  a  trembling  scout 
11 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

To  the  days  of  long  ago, 
To  the  days  of  storms  and  sunshine, 
Of  stories  you  've  never  told, 
Of  desperate  fights, 
Of  sleepless  nights, 
And  death  on  the  trail  of  gold. 

And  I  want  to  tell  you,  Thomas, 

That  the  vein  I  struck  out  there 

On  the  Deadwood  Hill 

Is   yielding   still, 
And  is  spreading  everywhere ; 
And  my  heart  was  full  of  gladness 
When  I  struck  your  trail,  old  boy, 

For  I  knew  that  day 

That  my  soul's  assay 
Would  bring  you  a  ray  of  joy. 

I  needed  the  thorns  and  crosses 
For  the  work  that  was  mine  to  do — 

You  needed  the  gold 

That  you  might  unfold 
The  soul  that  was  born  in  you, 
And  so  let  us  shake  as  brothers, 
Though  I  don't  know  which  is  which — 

You  're  a  prince,  old  pard, 

I  'm  an  humble  bard, 
But  I  'm  rich ;  God  knows  I  'm  rich ! 
12 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

And  I  would  n't  trade  my  riches 

For  the  riches  on  Fortune's  tree, 

For  I  want  to  live 

And  I  want  to  give 
What  the  good  Lord  gave  to  me, 
As  free  as  the  sighing  night- winds 
That  sounded  taps  in  the  glen 

When  we  went  to  rest 

On  old  Nature's  breast — 
The  bed  of  the  bravest  men. 

Ah !  those  were  the  brave  days,  comrade, 
That  tried  the  bravest  hearts, 

When  the  yell  of  the  red 

Through  the  air  oft  sped 
As  keen  as  his  feathered  darts! 
When  the  breezes  whispered,  "Danger!" 
Almost  with  their  every  breath ; 

But  our  brave  band  then 

Was  composed  of  men 
Who  laughed  in  the  face  of  death ! 

Then  we  'd  roll  in  our  trail-stained  blankets 
In  the  camp-fire's  flickering  light, 
The  roof  that  spread 
0  'er  our  humble  bed 
Begemmed  with  the  stars  of  night. 
And  our  rifles  were  laid  beside  us, 

13 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 


For  we  never  knew,  you  know, 
When  would  come  the  cry — 
We  must  do  or  die 

In  the  battle  with  savage  foe. 


Do  you  ever  think,  old  fellow, 

As  you  hobnob  with  men  of  fame, 

Of  the  days  of  old 

When  the  dream  of  gold 
Kept  the  fires  of  the  heart  aflame? 
Of  the  days  when  the  best  men  roughed  it, 
Their  possessions  strapped  to  the  back— 

Of  the  trials  we  knew 

In  the  days  when  you 
Were  "  Tom  "  and  I  "  Captain  Jack? 


But  time  in  its  flight  brings  changes ; 
You  've  realized  well  your  dream ; 
The  wealth  you  sought 
And  for  which  you  fought 
Came  to  you  in  golden  stream; 
And  I  have  won  wealth — less  golden, 
But  prized  just  the  same  — to  hear 
The  praise  that  is  sung 
By  many  a  tongue 
From  souls  I  have  filled  with  cheer. 

14 


THE      BRONCHO     BOOK 

The  hearty  acclaim  of  thousands 
As  my  jubilant  soul  vibrates, 

Framing  gladsome  words 

As  the  songs  of  birds 
From  the  East  to  the  Western  States ; 
The  songs  that  strike  at  the  heartstrings 
Till  they  ring  with  the  thrill  of  joy; 

I  'm  blest  every  hour 

With  this  God-sent  power — 
Say,  am  I  not  rich,  old  boy? 

And  this  is  the  song  of  the  singer 

That 's  sent  to  your  listening  ear — 

Each  fills  the  place 

On  the  old  earth's  face 
God  meant  when  He  placed  us  here ; 
And  I  hope  when  our  work  is  ended 
We  may  look  unregretfully  back 

O'er  the  trail  we  trod, 

And  will  hear  from  God 
A  welcome  for  Tom  and  Jack. 


15 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

Whar'  the  Hand  o'  God  is  Seen 

I  like  the  city,  stranger?  'Tis  n't  likely  that 

I  would; 
'T  is  n't  likely  that  a  ranger  from  the  border 

ever  could 
Git  accustomed  to  the  flurry  an'  the  loud  unearthly 

noise — 

Everybody  in  a  hurry,  men  an'  wimmin,  gals  an'  boys, 
All  a-rushin'  like  the  nation  'mid  the  rumble  an'  the  jar, 
Jes'  as  if  their  souls'  salvation  hung  upon  their  gittin' 
thar. 

Like  it?  No.  I  love  to  wander 

'Mid  the  vales  an'  mountains  green, 

In  the  borderland  out  yonder, 
Whar'  the  hand  o'  God  is  seen. 

Nothin'  thar  but  bricks  an'  mortar,  towerin'  overhead 

so  high, 

That  you  never  see  a  quarter  o'  the  overhanging  sky, 
Not  a  tree  nor  grassy  medder,  not  a  runnin'  brook 

in  sight, 
Nothin'  but  the  buildin's  shadder  makin'  gloom 

of  Heaven's  light. 
E'en  the  birds  are  all  imported  from  away  acrost 

the  sea- 
Faces  meet  me  all  distorted  with  the  hand  of  misery. 

16 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

oarin'  railroad  trains  above  you,  streets  by 

workmen  all  defaced, 
Everybody  tryin'  to  shove  you  in  the  gutter 

in  their  haste. 
Cars  an'  carts  an'  wagons  rumblin'  thru  the  streets 

with  defen'n'  roar, 
Drivers  yellin',  swearin',  grumblin',  jes'  like  imps 

from  Sheol's  shore, 
Factories  jinin'  in  the  chorus,  helpin'  o'  the  din 

to  swell, 
Auctioneers  in  tones  sonorous,  lyin'  'bout  the  goods 

they  sell. 

Yes,  I  love  the  Western  border ;  pine  trees  wavin' 

in  the  air, 
Rocks  piled  up  in  rough  disorder,  birds  a-singin' 

everywhere ; 
Deer  a-playin'  in  their  gladness,  elk  a-feedin* 

in  the  glen; 
Not  a  trace  o'  pain  or  sadness  campin'  on  the  trail 

o'  men. 
Brooks  o'  crystal  clearness  flowin'  o'er  the  rocks, 

an'  lovely  flowers 
In  their  tinted  beauty  growin'  in  that  borderland 

of  ours. 

Fairer  picture  the  Creator 

Never  threw  on  earthly  screen, 

17 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

Than  my  home,  sweet  home  o'  Natur' 
Whar'  the  hand  o'  God  is  seen. 


I 


God's  Ante  Room 

CANYON,  grand  and  wild  and  free  1 
You  've  got  a  lariat  on  me. 
My  soul  is  broncho-busted,  too. 
My  hat  is  off.  I  bow  to  you, 
Almighty  Hand,  who  cut  this  brand 
That  broncho  souls  can  understand. 

I  gaze  in  awe  and  silence  here ; 
I  want  to  laugh,  I  find  a  tear 
That  irrigates  the  joy  I  feel. 
0  Mother  Nature,  I  would  kneel 
And  clasp  and  kiss  thy  mighty  hand 
And  worship  in  this  temple  grand. 

What 's  that  you  say,  you  silly  dude? 
Such  sentiments  are  weak  and  crude? 
God!  Yes,  to  brainless  things  like  you 
Whose  soul  no  greatness  could  imbue, 
To  see,  or  feel,  or  understand 
God's  mighty  hand. 

18 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

You  go  to  Europe,  do  you  not? 
Because  you  worship  god,  I  wot — 
Yes,  Fashion's  god,  a  foolish  dame, 
And  yet  you  love  her  just  the  same, 
And  bow  and  worship  at  her  shrine — 
How  different  this  god  of  mine ! 


Almighty  scar  on  mountain  crest ! 
My  soul  seems  waking  from  the  tomb, 
And  I,  a  mite  on  Nature's  breast, 
I  never  knew,  I  never  guessed, 
But  now  I  know  what  is,  is  best, 
And  this  is  God's  own  ante  room. 


0  Mother  Nature,  hold  my  hand 
And  steady  me  a  little  while, 
That  I  may  feel  and  understand 
This  awe  inspiring  sight  so  grand, 
God's  greatest,  most  impressive  brand 
Clean  cut,  and  deeper  than  a  mile. 


And  now  I  see  the  lightning  flash, 
I  hear  the  thunder  roll  and  crash, 
While  echoes  through  the  canyon  dash 
'Mid  heaven's  tears. 

19 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

0  Mother  Nature,  hold  me  tight 
While  fall  the  shadows  of  the  night ; 
My  trembling  soul  is  all  affright 
With  holy  fears. 


Almighty  scar!  Almighty  Hand 
That  smote  thee,  who  can  understand 
And  who  describe  this  wondrous  land 

Beyond  compare? 

Can  mortal  paint  the  flower's  perfume, 
Or  see  beyond  the  mystic  tomb, 
Or  e'en  describe  God's  ante  room, 

So   wondrous   fair! 


The  Songs  Unsung 

H,  I  wish  I  could  sing 
The  real  songs  that  oft  spring 
From  the  musical  depths  of  my  soul; 

There  's  a  symphony  there, 

With  a  melody  rare, 

Sweetest  harmony  blending  the  whole. 
20 


HE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

Like  a  paeon  it  seems 

As  it  thrills  through  my  dreams, 

When  the  harp  of  my  soul  starts  to  play, 

But  the  instant  I  sing — 

Like  a  bird  on  the  wing 

It  trembles  and  flutters  away. 

Oh,  I  wish  I  could  sing, 

When  the  bells  start  to  ring 

The  chimes  that  come  soft  through  the  air ; 

When  the  birds  and  the  bees 

Hum  and  sing  in  the  trees 

And  sweet  life  surges  through,  everywhere. 

In  the  breeze  as  it  floats, 
I  can  hear  the  true  notes, 
To  catch  them  I  eagerly  try; 
Then  I  hum  it  again 
Till  the  sweet  minor  strain, 
Is  turned  to  a  tear  and  a  sigh. 


21 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

Inspiration 

X  SCALE  imagination's  dreamy  heights 
And  soar  away  beyond  all  earthly  sights 
And  seek  at  Nature's  best,  such  nourishment 
As  only  comes  with  harmonies  so  blent 
With  vision,  that  in  childhood's  fairy-land 
Were  touched  by  magic  of  an  unseen  hand. 

Thus  seeing  the  unseen,  imbibing  more 
Than  ever  was  contained  in  richest  store 
Of  literature,  of  poetry,  or  art, 
Where  mechanism  forms  the  greater  part — 
While  Mother  Nature  hides  within  her  breast 
The  flaming  torch  of  truth  and  with  it  best 
Of  inspirations,  pure  and  undefiled; 
I  felt  her  touch  when  I  was  yet  a  child. 

I  dreamed  the  same  sweet  dream  I  'm  dreaming  now 
And  sometimes  plucked  a  pansy  from  her  brow, 
"  Pansies  for  thoughts,"  as  sweet  Ophelia  said, 
And  through  sweet  phantom  thoughts  my  dreams 

were  led; 

I  wove  it  in  a  wreath  of  simple  rhyme 
And  placed  it  on  the  brow  of  Father  Time. 


22 


THE      BRONCHO     BOOK 

A  Yuletide  Bouquet 
To  You,  My  Friend 


9 


ROM  out  the  larder  of  my  soul, 

Where  nature's  mystic  posies  blend 
With  fruits  and  flowers,  I  fill  love's  bowl, 
And  serve  it  warm  to  you,  my  friend. 


I  call  the  sweetest,  wildest  flowers, 
Soft-tinted  as  the  rainbow  spray, 

And  fling  to  you  from  nature's  bowers, 
To  mingle  with  December  gray. 

These  are  but  echoes  of  the  past, 
To  music  set  in  memory's  chimes ; 

The  silken  nets  that  love  has  cast, 
To  catch  the  sunshine  of  my  rhymes. 

And  isn't  it  sweet  that  some  kind  deed- 
A  memory  throb,  a  God-sent  tear — 

Oft'  comes  to  cultivate  the  seed 

That  we  are  sure  to  sow  each  year? 

And  so,  I  'm  flinging  this  bouquet 
Of  thankfulness  and  love  to  you : 

Sweet  buds  of  reciprocity, 

Besprinkled  with  affection's  dew. 

23 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 


And  with  the  cheerful  Yuletide, 
This  is  the  hopeful  wish  I  send : 

That  love  of  God  and  man  abide 

With  you  and  yours,  my  faithful  friend. 


Hymn  of  Nature's  Creed 

eHERE  'S  a  glint  of  glory  gleaming, 
There  's  a  flag  of  love  outstreaming 
O'er  the  stronghold  of  the  ramparts  of  your  soul 
There  's  a  flag  of  truce  uplifting, 
Clouds  of  care  are  passing — drifting. 
There  's  a  haven  where  the  troubled  waters  roll 

Cheer  up  and  be  glad, 

Let  the  dead  past  be  sad, 

All  hail  the  bright  sunbeams  to-day; 

In  your  soul  there  's  a  light 

That  will  burn  through  the  night, 

And  drive  all  the  dark  clouds  away. 

There  's  a  wondrous  depth  of  feeling 

We  are  wrongfully  concealing. 

Can't  you  feel  it  in  the  thrilling  of  your  soul? 

24 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

What  you  need  is  reconstruction 

And  a  roborant  eruption 

In  the  glory  you  are  striving  to  control. 


Mother  Nature's  hand  is  reaching — 
You  can  hear  her  voice  beseeching 
That  you,  her  child,  will  but  her  laws  obey. 
If  you  're  man  enough  to  face  her, 
Don't  abuse  her  but  embrace  her. 
She  will  heal  your  wounds  and  make  your  heart 
strings  play. 


I  Jve  Got  The  Brand 

*M|  OOK  where  the  eagle  builds  his  nest : 
Far  up  on  yonder  mountain  crest 
And  where  his  young  in  safety  rest- 
Without  a  care. 

Look  where  the  eagle  plumes  his  flight, 
And  soars  above  the  highest  height, 
Where  starry  vigils  pierce  the  night — 
God's  face  is  there. 

25 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

Look  deep  into  the  deepest  dell, 
Look  deeper  still  where  angels  fell, 
And  in  the  depths  of  deepest  hell, 

And  black  despair. 

Look  straight  with  eyes  that  know  no  fear, 
And  you  will  see  and  feel  and  hear 
The  unafraid,  and  love  to  cheer — 

God's  face  is  there. 


Oh,  brother  mine,  and  sisters,  too, 

Love's  lariat  encircles  you. 

Don't  stretch  your  good  face  out  o'  tune — 

Give  me  your  hand. 

You  're  just  a  wayward  maverick  stray ; 
Drive  superstitious  ghosts  away, 
And  join  God's  brotherhood  to-day — 

And  take  the  brand. 


God's  brand!  Why,  every  little  flower 
That  blossoms  in  His  richest  bower 
Is  branded  with  His  wondrous  power, 

And  mighty  hand. 
And  thus  in  everything  I  see, 
From  bursting  buds  to  tallest  tree, 
God's  face  is  peeping  out  at  me — 

I  've  got  the  brand. 

26 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

Thanksgiving 

E  thank  Thee,  God,  the  Giver  of  all 

good, 
For  Peace  of  Justice,  strenuous, 

truth's   uniting — 

For  giving  us  that  glorious  Man  who  stood 
Between  the  lines,  and  stopped  inhuman 

fighting : 
For  bounteous  harvests,  strong  heroic  souls 

Who  dare  to  follow  him  we  call  our  Teddy — 
For  truth  and  honor  where  Old  Glory  rules ; 
For  statesmen  unafraid,  true,  strong  and  steady. 

God  speed  the  truth,  let  Justice  reign  supreme — 

Let  Labor,  Law  and  Loyalty  combine 
To  make  it  real,  our  brightest,  happiest  dream 

Of  Liberty  and  Love  and  God's  Sunshine ; 
And  when  Thanksgiving  Day  returns  once  more 

May  Peace  and  Plenty  strolling  hand  in  hand, 
Go  on  and  on  toward  a  richer  store, 

While  Song  and  Laughter  echoes  through  the 
land. 

And  echoing  from  every  hill  and  glen 
Praise  God  from  whom  all  blessings  flow, 

—AMEN 


27 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

Mother's  Way 

HATE'ER  my  soul  may  long  for, 
Whate'er  my  eyes  may  see, 
The  simple  faith  of  Mother 
Is  broad  enough  for  me. 

For  years  and  years,  for  months,  from  day  to  day, 

In  camp  or  field  where  rainbow-tinted  spray 

Rises  in  misty  monuments  on  high, 

To  mingle  with  the  dew  drops  in  the  sky, 

I  've  heard  a  voice,  sometimes  in  whispers  low, 

I  've  felt  a  feathery  touch  like  flakes  of  snow 

Descending  when  the  stars  were  hid  from  view 

And  not  a  silvery  spray  in  heaven's  blue ; 

And  yet,  beyond  it  all  I  saw  a  light 

That  pierced  the  Stygian  darkness  of  the  night ; 

And  though  my  tired  eyes  were  closed  the  while, 

I  saw  the  jeweled  eyes — the  tender  smile 

That  midnight  gloom  nor  snowy  clouds  could  smother ; 

I  heard — I  felt — I  saw  the  face  of  Mother. 

Oh  peaceful  sleep  that  comes  with  thoughts  like  this. 

That  whispers  peace,  and  bids  me  rise  to  kiss 

The  rod  administered  by  unseen  hand ! 

Nor  do  I  try  to  think  I  understand. 

I  only  know,  that  as  I  sit  me  here 

And  note  the  soft,  low  whisperings  in  my  ear, 

28 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

That  somewhere  there  's  a  Master  of  my  mind 
That  I  can  see  and  worship,  though  I  'm  blind 
And  while  He  thus  dictates — I  '11  have  none  other, 
But  God  of  Faith  and  Hope,  Sunshine  and  Mother. 

God  is  good  and  good  is  God, 
And  God  and  good  together 

Will  keep  us  clean  unsight  unseen 
Throughout  life's  changing  weather. 


The  Scout's  Retreat 

CUBBY  hole,  a-sittin'  on  a  crest, 
An'  scraggy  peaks  a-pointin'  to  the  sky, 
A  mountain  lair,  above  an  eagle's  nest, 
A  runnin'  brook,  a  cataract  close  by, 
An  orchestra  by  Mother  Nature  led, 
A  herd  o'  deer  a-browsin'  at  my  feet, 
God's  shinin'  gems  a-sparkle  overhead — 
And  evening  vespers  in  the  Scout's  Retreat. 

Almighty  King  of  kings  and  Lord  of  lords, 
The  lonely  scout  an'  hunter  hears  thy  voice ; 
How  with  the  birds  an'  bees  an'  brooks  it  chords, 
An'  earth  an'  heaven  get  closer  an'  rejoice ; 

29 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

Nor  pomp,  nor  pride,  nor  hypocritic  zeal, 
Nor  padded  pews,  nor  soft  an'  springy  seat, 
Are  needed  where  there  's  nothing  to  conceal, 
From  Him,  who  watches  o'er  the  Scout's  Retreat. 


The  Old  Kentucky  Rifle 

XAM  crowdin'  close  to  eighty,  gittin'  mighty  near 
the  end, 
My  hair  is  white  an'  scattered,  an'  my  back 

has  got  a  bend. 

I  am  shaky  on  my  trotters,  an'  my  eyes  has  got  so  dim 
I  kin  scarcely  see  yon  mountain  that  so  of  en  I 

have  clim. 
I  've  gathered  up  some  treasures  that  I  value  mighty 

high, 
An'  thar's  one  which  all  the  money  of  the  earth 

could  never  buy. 
Among  my  goods  an'  chattels  here  I  prize  it  more 

than  all, 
That  ol'  Kentucky  rifle  hangin'  thar  ag'in  the  wall. 

Its  stock  is  scarred  an'  battered,  an'  its  bar'l  is  full 
o'  nicks; 

30 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

Its  lock  is  worn  with  sarvice  till  I  scarce  kin  hear 

its  clicks. 

It 's  lost  the  shinin'  beauty  'at  it  had  when  I  was  young, 
But  when  it  speaks  it  has  'nt  lost  the  sharpness 

of  its   tongue.    « 
It  was  my  lone  companion  when  this  country  was  a 

wild, 

I  loved  it  dear  as  father  ever  loved  a  favored  child. 
An'  I  've  seed  some  skeery  moments  when  to  me 

't  was  all  in  all, 
That  ol'  Kentucky  rifle  hangin'  thar  ag'in  the  wall. 

Lots  o'  deer  has  fell  before  it ;  yes,  an'  many  a  panther, 

too, 
An'  in  early  days  some  Injuns  knowed  about  what  it 

could  do. 
An'  a  squir'l's  eye  peepin'  at  me  from  the  very  tallest 

tree, 
I  could  bu'st  all  into  bits  an'  bring  the  critter 

down  to  me. 
An'  the  Chris'mas  shootin'  matches,  master  mine ! 

but  wa'n't  they  fun? 
An'  I  reckon  I  surprised  'em  with  the  shootin' 

'at  I  done. 
Every  turkey  'at  I  drawed  on  caught  the  vengeance 

of  a  ball 
From  that  ol'  Kentucky  rifle  hangin'  thar  ag'in  the 

wall. 

31 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

I  have  seed  the  new  inventions  they  are  makin' 

now-a-days, 

An'  I  own  they  're  mighty  slick  in  a  variety  o'  ways ; 
They  are  han'some  fur  to  look  at,  you  can  load  'em 

with  a  snap, 
An'  you  never  have  to  bother  with  a  flint-lock  or  a 

cap; 
You  kin  shoot  'em  mighty  lively  when  you  bring  'em 

to  the  scratch, 
Never  have  to  ram  yer  bullets,  never  have  to  cut  a 

patch. 
But  fur  close  an'  hair-breadth  shootin'  I  could  one  day 

down  'em  all 
With  that  ol'  Kentucky  rifle  hangin'  thar  ag'in  the  wall 

Thar 's  one  thing  makes  me  love  it  as  I  never  did  afore — 
When  I  heered  the  ringin'  summons  callin'  loyal 

men  to  war. 

All  the  fire  that  nerved  my  daddy  in  the  Revolution  days 
Got  a-surgin'  in  my  bosom  till  my  heart  was  all  ablaze. 
Then  I  shouldered  that  ol'  rifle,  filled  my  bullet-pouch 

with  lead, 
Put  that  ol'  warm  cap  o'  coonskin  sort  o'  keerless 

on  my  head, 
An*  I  offered  them  the  sarvice  of  a  mighty  keen-eyed 

man 
For  to  do  some  fancy  shootin'  under  glorious  old 

Berdan. 

32 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

Through  the  bloody  war  I  packed  her,  and  brought 

her  home  ag'in 

Proud  an'  sassy  o'  the  record  that  I  tuk  her  in  to  win ; 
An'  when  age  was  creepin'  on  me  an'  I  could  n't  shoot 

no  more, 
With  my  shaky  hands  I  hung  her  up  to  rest  behind 

the  door. 
When  this  ol'  an'  worn-out  body  underneath 

the  ground  they  hide, 

I  've  asked  'em  fur  to  lay  it  sort  o'  lovin'  by  my  side, 
An'  when  Gabriel  blows  his  trumpet  I  '11  march  up'ard 

at   the   call, 
Hangin'  on  to  that  ol'  rifle  over  thar  ag'in  the  wall. 


The  Unseen  Hand 

r -NIGHT  I  take  my  humble  pen  in  hand, 
Without  a  thought  or  stanza  aptly  planned, 
But  how  they  come !  I  scarce  can  write 

them  down; 

And  laugh  and  tear  is  oft-times  turned  to  frown 
Because  I  have  no  language  to  express 
The  songs  of  love  and  joy  and  tenderness 

33 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

That  light  my  soul  and  lift  me  up  on  high, 
Till  angel  voices  far  beyond  the  sky 
Seem  joining  in  my  wild  and  sweet  refrain — 
And  then  I  tumble  back  to  earth  again. 

And  yet,  I  envy  none,  though  many  kings 
Might  envy  me,  when  poised  on  f eath'ry  wings 
Of  tender  fancy,  as  my  soul  expands 
And  I  can  feel  the  touch  of  unseen  hands, 
That  take  the  pencil  from  my  grasp  and  write, 
While  I  in  happy  dreamland  float  to-night : 
And  well  I  know  without  some  greater  pow'r 
I  could  not  even  cull  a  prairie  flow'r. 


The  Sculptor  and  The  Scout 

MFELT  the  touch  of  Nature's  fire 
Inflate  my  soul.  His  soul's  desire 
Was  in  the  clay  his  fingers  wrought- 
His  touch  upon  a  tender  spot 
Seemed  like  a  mellow  note  that  swells 
Like  distant  echo  of  the  bells 
That  chime  before  the  organ  peals ; 
The  softening  symphony  that  steals 

34 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 


Into  our  senses  as  we  kneel, 

And  one  deep  touch  of  reverence  feel. 

And  so  the  sculptor's  eye  revealed 

The  glow  of  genius  unconcealed, 

That  lighted  up  his  eager  face ; 

And  as  he  moved  with  ease  and  grace 

I  sat  and  watched  him  carve  and  mould, 

While  I  some  stirring  story  told, 

Of  camp  and  trail  and  field  and  strife, 

Of  love  and  home  and  faithful  wife, 

Who  watched  and  prayed — sometimes  alone- 

That  God  would  bring  him  to  his  own. 

When  on  some  dangerous  mission  bent, 
Without  the  shelter  of  a  tent 
And  only  stars  to  point  the  way — 
Oft  fearful  of  his  horse's  neigh, 
Watchful  on  this  dangerous  scout 
Of  hostile  Indians  breaking  out, 
He  takes  the  trail  through  canons  grand 
While  eyes  and  nostrils  wide  expand, 
Dilating  with  intense  desire, 
Until  he  sees  the  hostile's  fire — 
Locates  the  camp  and  rides  all  night 
To  lead  the  soldiers  to  the  fight — 
But  not  until  the  fight  is  won 
Comes  rest  and  peace,  his  duty  done. 

35 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

Those  are  the  times  when  men  must  think, 

As  every  moment  on  the  brink 

Of  danger  and  the  grasp  of  Death — 

How  oft  I  've  felt  his  icy  breath! 

'T  was  then  I  thought  of  fearsome  things — 

Of  nightmare  hells — when  angel  wings 

Seemed  fluttering  down  the  atmosphere ; 

And  many  a  time  I  've  felt  a  tear 

Escape  and  trickle  down  my  cheek 

And  somehow,  every  time  I  'd  speak 

The  echo  seemed  to  answer  true : 

"  Fear  not,  for  God  is  watching  you." 

So,  as  this  sculptor  friend  of  mine 
Is  modeling  while  I  think  and  rhyme 
My  fleeting  thought,  promiscuous  here, 
I  somehow  feel  that  I  am  near 
To  Nature's  fountains,  and  the  swell 
Of  echoes  reach  me  from  the  dell, 
While  towering  pines  on  mountain's  brow 
Seem  waving,  bending  o'er  me  now, 
And  sunshine  spreads  in  glory  there 
With  benediction  everywhere. 

For  rocks  and  trees  and  running  brooks 
Tell  me  a  story  that  the  books 
Can  never  tell — for  Nature's  shrine 
Holds  treasures  that  are  more  sublime 

36 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 


Than  hand  of  man  has  ever  penned; 
And  as  I  through  their  fastness  wend 
My  upward  way,  I  catch  the  fire 
That  may  my  humble  pen  inspire. 


A  Successful  Failure 

CHERE  is  one  absorbing 
question 

And  on  it  hangs  much  stress ; 
"  Has  Mr.  Crook  much  money 
And  is  he  a  success?" 
Oh,  never  mind  the  getting 
Or  what  he  did  to  get, 
But  did  he  really  get  it 
And  has  he  got  it  yet  ? 

"  Of  course  he  has,  but — cut  it, 
Unless  you  have  a  barrel 
Like  Mr.  Thomas  Lawson, 
To  liquidate  your  quarrel, 
Your  '  buts'  are  too  expensive ; 
You  're  innocent,  I  guess. 
The  thief,  if  rich,  is  honest, 
For  money  is  SUCCESS." 

37 


THE      B  R  O  N  C  HOB  O  O 

You  lie,  there  is  no  falsehood, 

So  cowardly  as  that, 

You  are  a  craven  parvenue— 

A  false  aristocrat. 

Dishonesty  successful 

Is  failure's  greatest  knave, 

And  what  are  you,  I  'd  ask  you, 

But  failure's  abject  slave? 

You  cringe  before  your  master, 

Old  Pluto,  till  his  heel 

Has  pressed  his  brand  upon  you, 

And  then,  abject  you  kneel 

And  fawn  and  lie  for  pointers 

Till,  subsequently,  you 

Are  clean  sold  out  and  labeled 

"  Successful  failure,"  too. 


This  Ain't  Poetry— It's  God's  Truth 

ON'T  dilly-dally,  when  you  know  you  're 

right. 
Don't  count  the  cost  in  case  you  have 

to  fight- 
As  fight  you  must,  if  you  would  dare  assail 
The  outlaws  that  will  camp  upon  your  trail 

38 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

And  lay  for  you,  like  cowards  that  they  are, 
Too  cunning  to  declare  an  open  war. 


Perhaps  religion's  cloak  may  serve  to  blind 

The  people  for  a  time ;  but  you  will  find 

That  strength  of  character  and  spinal  grit 

Will  win  against  deceit  and  polished  wit; 

Nor  rank,  nor  pull,  nor  high  exalted  station 

Nor  brains,  nor  form,  nor  bogus  reputation 

Can  stand  against  the  strenuous,  staunch  and 

steady, 
Brave,  true  and  honest  followers  of  Teddy. 


To  Hades  with  the  frenzied  finance  tricks! 
His  army  has  increased  since  nineteen-six 
Despite  the  millions  and  the  billions  that's  behind 
"  The  House  of  Lords,"  men  of  senate-senile 

kind, 
May  influence  some,  there  's  those  who  can't  be 

bought ; 

And  even  senatorial  thieves  are  caught 
Like   what  's-his-name — convicted,   thank 

the  Lord — 

Convicted,  yes  and  killed ;  they  can't  afford 
To  live — and  that 's  why  that  one  died — 
A  simple  case  of  grafter's  suicide. 

39 


It  Does  n't  Pay 

"  What 's  gone  and  what 's  past  help,  should  be  past 

grief."  — Shakespeare 

E  should  thank  the  bard  of  Avon  for  this 

truthful  sentiment ; 
His  wisdom,  his  philosophy,  his  sunny 

merriment 
Have  conquered  many  a  sorrow — made  light  of  many 

a  care, 

And  turned  the  gloom  of  worriment  to  sunlight  clear 
and  fair. 


I  love  to  steal  his  thunder,  when  it  rumbles  in  my  soul ; 
The  flashes  of  his  lightning  oft  light  me  to  my  goal. 
And  thus,  while  I  reflect  him,  in  my  simple,  rustic 

ways, 
Some  rustic  folk  may  read  him,  who  could  never  read 

his  plays. 

Because  their  understanding,  undeveloped,  cannot 

grasp 
What  their  souls  may  drink  with  pleasure,  if  I  open 

up  the  clasp 

In  a  simple  transformation  or  a  rustic  bas-relief. 
"  What 's  past  and  can't  be  mended  should,  indeed, 

be  past  all  grief." 

40 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

So  I  ask  of  you,  my  brother,  or  my  comrade,  does  it  pay 
To  cloud  your  splendid  intellect  with  what  has  passed 

away? 

To  dwarf  the  possibility  of  reaching  yonder  goal — 
To  handicap  your  genius  with  wet  blankets  on  your 

soul? 

Get  wise,  my  friend,  let  wisdom  take  the  place  of  false 

pretense ; 
There  's  only  one  thing  needful,  that 's  a  bit 

of  commonsense. 

If  you  '11  only  make  an  effort,  you  '11  get  it  right  away, 
And  your  answer  to  my  question  will  be,  "  No, 

it  does  n't  pay." 


If  Roosevelt  Had  Been  Bad 

He  'd  have  been  the  baddest  man  that  ever  was, 
his  daughter  says. 

OU  never  spoke  a  greater  truth, 

For  baddest  of  the  men  were  best, 
Who  in  their  boyhood  and  their  youth 
Had  drifted  to  the  strenuous  West; 

41 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

Big,  whole-soul'd,  generous  Mother's  Boys, 
With  tender  hearts,  and  souls  aglow, 

With  hopes,  ambitions,  and  the  joys 
That  make  good  fellows  love  them  so. 

Some  broke  their  bonds  and  ran  away, 

Some  slowly  drifted  with  the  tide, 
Some  saw  the  blood-and-thunder  play 

Where  many  a  Bowery  redskin  died. 
And  some  were  college  boys,  and  bred 

In  homes  where  Christian  parents  knelt ; 
And  some  were  strenuous,  cultured,  read, 

And  brave,  like  Papa  Roosevelt. 

Many  a  noble  Mother's  Boy 

Has  carved  a  fortune  and  a  name, 
Whose  coming  back  brought  tears  of  joy 

And  happiness,  as  well  as  fame. 
And  others,  just  as  pure,  alas! 

And  just  as  honest,  true  and  brave, 
Have  toyed  too  often  with  the  glass, 

And  only  filled  a  felon's  grave. 

Have  pity  then,  Oh,  Daughter  fair, 
Of  Him  who  best  can  understand 

The  hearts  of  splendid  men  who  dare 
As  dared  the  boys  of  his  command. 

42 


THE      BRONCHO     BOOK 


Have  pity  and  compassion,  too, 
On  those  unfortunates  who  fell, 

Who  wear  the  stripes  instead  of  blue, 
And  yet,  who  love  their  country  well. 

For  half  the  men  behind  the  bars, 

In  Western  pens  across  the  plains, 
Are  fit  to  fight  in  freedom's  wars 

As  men  of  courage,  heart  and  brains. 
And  don't  forget  that  many  men 

Too  often  fall  as  life  begins, 
And  many  a  man  in  prison  pen 

Is  suffering  for  another's  sins. 


Does  it  Pay? 

MX  'S  easy  enough  to  be  funny, 
It 's  easy  enough  to  be  glad, 
When  the  larder  is  flowing  with  honey 
And  the  body  in  comfort  is  clad ; 
And  it 's  easy  enough  to  be  frisky, 
To  frolic  and  laugh  and  be  gay 
While  you  drink  to  your  sweetheart  in  whiskey, 
But  tell  me,  my  boy,  does  it  pay  ? 

43 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

It 's  easy  enough  to  be  jolly 

When  out  for  a  lark  with  the  boys, 
And  away  from  dear  mother  and  Molly, 

Who  'd  share  all  your  sorrows  and  joys. 
And  it 's  easy  enough  to  deceive  them — 

Their  sweet  loving  hearts  to  betray ; 
But  it 's  selfish  and  brutal  to  grieve  them — 

And  tell  me,  my  boy,  does  it  pay? 

But  it 's  easier  far  to  be  truthful, 

Straightforward  in  all  that  you  do. 
Keep  your  heart  and  your  soul  always  youthful, 

To  mother  and  sweetheart  be  true. 
And,  boys,  let  me  give  you  a  motto, 

To  keep  in  your  heart  every  day — 
Though  you  drive  a  wheelbarrow  or  auto, 

Whatever  you  do,  make  it  pay. 


A  Bit  of  Doggerel 

rHE  most  faithful  dog  that  I  ever  knew, 
Most  lovable  and  kind  and  true, 
Was  a  yellow  cur,  tender  and  brave, 
Whose  great  heart  broke  on  his  master's  grave. 

44 


THE      BRONCHO     BOOK 


If  You  Should  Die  To-night 

UPPOSE  that  you  should  die  to 
night; 
Just  stop  and  think  and  hold  your 

breath — 

Remember,  there  is  just  one  wink 
'Twixt  you  and  Death — old  sure-thing 
Death. 

Suppose  that  you  should  die  to-night; 
Would  some  one  miss  a  sunny  ray? 
Would  some  one  kiss  the  face  of  clay? 
Would  some  one  watch  and  pray? 

Suppose  that  you  should  die  to-night; 
Would  some  dear  heart,  with  love  for  you 
A  drop  impart  of  heaven's  dew, 
For  friendship  that  was  branded  "  true?" 

Ah,  yes,  if  I  should  die  to-night, 
I  know  that  some  my  smile  would  miss ; 
Some  little  waif  might  kneel  to  kiss 
The  hand  that  signs  my  name  to  this — 
If  I  should  die  to-night. 


45 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 


The  Harvest 

HEN  your  head  is  bowed 

in    sorrow 
And  your  soul  is  out  of 

tune, 
When  the  prospects  of  to-morrow 

Are  behind  a  veil  of  gloom, 
Can't  you  see  the  light  beyond  it — 

Just  a  glimmer  of  the  prize? 
Keep  a-groping  and  you  '11  find  it 
But  a  blessing  in  disguise. 

Did  you  ever  climb  the  mountain, 

Weary,  foot-sore  and  afraid 
You  would  never  reach  the  fountain 

On  the  summit  in  the  shade? 
Then  a  sudden  glint  of  glory 

Seemed  to  flash  before  your  eyes, 
And  the  sequel  to  the  story — 

'T  was  a  blessing  in  disguise. 

Courage  is  the  only  asset 

That  will  conquer  in  the  fight, 

If  you  have  the  will  to  mass  it 
On  the  lines  of  truth  and  right. 

And  when  at  last  victorious, 
From  the  conflict  you  arise, 

46 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

You  '11  reap  a  harvest  glorious 
From  your  blessings  in  disguise. 


The  Soul  of  Song 

H,  what  would  I  give 
If  again  I  could  live, 

Renewing  the  battles  unwon ; 
With  courage  to  dare, 
And  with  patience  to  bear 
The  struggles  so  often  begun. 

But  the  Springtime  of  life, 
With  its  pleasures  and  strife 

Entwined  in  my  sensitive  soul — 
The  good  and  the  bad, 
With  the  joy-time  and  sad, 

Were  each  in  their  turn  in  control. 

But  the  musical  spray 
That 's  a-sprinkle  to-day, 

And  the  buds  that  are  sprouting  by  night, 
Will  nourish  the  flow'rs 
In  my  soul's  tropic  bow'rs — 

I  catch  the  perfume  as  I  write. 

47 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

And  all  that  I  ask 

Is  the  grace  to  unmask 

Each  motive  that  's  selfish  and  wrong  — 
And  that  some  one  as  wild, 
With  the  heart  of  a  child, 

Will  catch  the  real  soul  of  my  song. 


What  Do  I  Know? 

HAT  do  I  know?  Poor  little 

me, 

I  need  a  microscope  to  see 
What  I  do  know  ; 

The  overflow 

Of  nature's  riches,  all  aglow 

And  sparkling  with  the  stars  and  dew, 

I  only  know  beyond  the  blue 

I  cannot  see. 

Poor  little   me. 

What  do  I  know?  I  know  but  this  : 
I  know  my  ignorance  is  bliss 
Most  wisely  planned. 

I  understand 

48 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

That  tow'ring  pines  and  mountains  grand 
Are  dear  and  beautiful  to  me ; 
Beyond  their  peaks  I  cannot  see, 
But  God  is  there, 

And  everywhere, 
And  this  is  good  enough  for  me. 


Sunshine 

NEVER  like  to  see  a  man  a-'rastlin' 

with  the  dumps 
'Cause  in  the  game  of  life  he  does  n't  always 

catch  the  trumps ; 

But  I  can  always  cotton  to  a  free  and  easy  cuss 
As  takes  his  dose,  and  thanks  the  Lord  it  is  n't  any 

wuss. 

There  ain't  no  use  o'  kickin'  and  swearin'  at  your  luck, 
Yer  can't  correct  the  trouble  more  'n  you  can  drown 

a  duck. 
Remember,  when  beneath  the  load  your  sufferin'  head 

is  bowed, 

That  God  '11  sprinkle  sunshine  in  the  trail  of  every 
cloud. 

49 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

If  you  should  see  a  fellow  man  with  trouble's  flag 

unfurled, 
And  lookin'  like  he  did  n't  have  a  friend  in  all 

the  world, 
Go  up  and  slap  him  on  the  back,  and  holler  "  how 

d'  you  do," 
And  grasp  his  hand  so  warm  he  '11  know  he  has  a  friend 

in  you. 
Then  ax  him  what 's  a-hurtin'  'im,  and  laugh  his 

cares  away, 
And  tell  him  that  the  darkest  night  is  just  afore  the 

day. 
Don't  talk  in  graveyard  palaver,  but  say  it  right  out 

loud, 
That  God  '11  sprinkle  sunshine  in  the  trail  of  every 

cloud. 


This  world  at  best  is  but  a  hash  of  pleasure 

and  of  pain. 
Some  days  are  bright  and  sunny,  and  some  all  sloshed 

with  rain. 
And  that 's  just  how  it  ought  to  be,  for  when  the  clouds 

roll  by, 
We  '11  know  just  how  to  'predate  the  bright  and 

smilin*  sky. 
So  learn  to  take  it  as  it  comes,  and  don't  sweat 

at  the  pores 

50 


THE      BRONCHO     BOOK 


Because  the  Lord's  opinion  does  n't  coincide 

with  yours; 
But  always  keep  rememberin',  when  cares  your  path 

enshroud, 
That  God  has  lots  of  sunshine  to  spill  behind 

the  cloud. 


A  Sunshine  Boomerang 

HEN  a  bit  of  sunshine 

hits  ye, 
After  passing  of  a  cloud, 
When  a  fit  of  laughter  gits  ye 

An'  yer  spine  is  f  eelin'  proud, 
Don't  fergit  to  up  and  fling  it 

At  a  soul  that 's  f  eelin'  blue, 
For  the  minit  that  ye  sling  it, 
It 's  a  boomerang  to  you. 


51 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

If  I  But  Could 

MF  I  could  clothe  each  jeweled  thought 
That  comes  to  me  from  Nature's  bowers 
In  classic  language,  such  as  taught 
Away  from  western  woods  and  flowers, 
If  I  could  sing  the  sweet  refrains 

That  in  my  soul  in  silence  cluster, 
From  many  a  heart  I  'd  strike  the  chains, 
And  give  the  star  of  hope  new  lustre. 

If  I  could  scatter  all  the  gems 

That  light  my  soul  in  darkened  places, 
Could  pluck  the  hope-buds  from  their  stems, 

And  wreathe  them  o'er  despondent  faces, 
If  I  but  had  the  power  to  stay 

The  blighting  hand  of  pain  and  sorrow, 
The  human  flowers  that  wilt  to-day 

Would  raise  their  heads  and  bloom  to-morrow. 

If  from  the  Master  Hand  above 

To  me  the  longed-for  power  was  given 
To  change  all  bitterness  to  love, 

Of  every  earthly  hell  make  heaven, 
The  lowering  clouds  would  quickly  flee 

Before  the  light  which  followed  after, 
And  every  wave  of  Life's  broad  sea 

Would  gleam  and  shine  with  sparkling  laughter. 

52 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 


A  Sermon  to  Myself 
(Or  to  You— if  it  Fits) 

ON'T  be  blue — just  be  true 
To  yourself  and  smile. 
Don't  you  know  clouds  will  go 
In  a  little  while? 


Have  some  grit — up  an'  git! 

What 's  the  recompense — 
Fret  and  stew!  keepin'  blue, 

Lackin'  commonsense? 

Take  it  cool.  Whoa,  you  mule, 

Kickin'  like  a  steer ! 
Half  your  trouble  's  but  a  bubble : 

What  you  got  to  fear? 

Friends  are  honey  when  you  've  money, 

Otherwise  they  're  few. 
Then,  dod  rot  it,  PLAY  YOU  'VE  GOT  IT- 

And  you  '11  git  it,  too ! 


53 


THE      BRONCHO     BOOK 

A  Broncho's  Philosophy 
A  New  Year  "  Pome" 

lON'T  blame  the  world.  It 's  better 
Than  the  man  who  wants  to  be 
A  somebody,  but  lives  to  save 
The  undertaker's  fee. 
For  surely  he  's  a  dead  one 

On  our  strenuous  preserves. 
A  wooden  coat,  six  feet  of  earth, 
Is  all  that  he  deserves. 


Go  chase  yourself  around  the  block, 

Then  chase  around  some  more, 
And  start  the  blood  to  circulate, 

And  sweat  from  every  pore. 
Then  change  your  face  and  change  your  sox, 

And  change  your  atmosphere, 
And  change  your  dope  for  Heaven's  brew, 

To  start  the  glad  New  Year. 


Now  this  is  my  advice  to  you — 
But  have  you  got  the  sand 

To  buck  against  temptation, 
And  to  play  a  winnin'  hand? 
54 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

If  so,  then  shake !  God  speed  you  on ; 

You  '11  win,  just  persevere. 
And  if  you  've  never  been  a  man, 

Begin  with  the  New  Year. 


Some  Broncho  Philosophy 

M  WONDER  is  it  perfume  of  the  flow'rs 
I  'm  smelling  now, 
Or  the  laurel  being  woven — will  it  fit  my 

sun-tanned  brow  ? 
And  I  wonder  will  they  bring  it  while  life's  vistas 

onward  spread, 

Or  wait,  before  they  fling  it,  till  the  heart  is  cold  and 
dead? 

It  is  not  so  much  the  roses  or  the  laurel  that  I  crave, 
But  the  sunshine  of  the  friendship  and  approval 

of  the  brave, 
Who  are  not  afraid  to  speak  it  and  to  grasp  a  fellow's 

hands 
When  he  's  slipping  cogs  and  sinking  in  the  world's 

uncertain  sands. 

55 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

That 's  the  time  to  fling  a  lasso,  with  a  wreath 

upon  the  rope. 
Let  its  coils  of  strength  encircle  some  poor  struggler's 

ray  of  hope ; 
For  the  moment  that  you  yank  him  where  his  feet 

will  hit  bed  rock, 
There  's  a  heap  of  good  set  going  and  a  premium 

on  your  stock. 

And  I  cannot  help  believing  that  the  sunny  smiles 

we  fling, 
The  bits  of  fun  we  scatter,  with  the  songs  we  love 

to  sing, 
Are  the  harbingers  of  blessings  on  the  scrimmage  line 

of  hope 
That  will  light  the  trail  with  sunshine  as  we  journey 

o'er  Life's  slope. 


Greeting 

HEN  your  rainbow  of  hope,  be  it  near 

or  afar, 

Is  throwing  its  searchlight  on  you ; 
When  you  feel  that  the  gate  of  success  is  ajar 
And  the  star  in  hope's  crescent  peeps  through. 

56 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

Don't  leave  a  poor  brother  or  sister  behind, 
There  are  many  hard  pulls  on  life's  slope ; 

And  some  weary  brother,  nearsighted,  might  find 
His  star  through  your  own  telescope. 

And  sometimes  a  word  or  a  look  or  a  touch 

Of  nature,  that  makes  us  all  kin, 
A  smile  or  a  slap  on  the  back,  will  do  much 

To  help  modest  merit  to  win. 

Come,  join  me,  Oh  ye  who  have  struggled  and  won 

Just  a  mite,  with  a  smile  and  a  tear, 
And  hark  to  a  voice  that  will  whisper,  "  Well  done," 

And  enjoy  a  real  happy  New  Year. 


The  Sunshine  Trail 

r  HERE'S  a  world  of  satisfaction 
In  this  broncho  soul  of  mine. 
Though  I  have  n't  got  a  dollar 
Of  my  own,  I  'm  feeling  fine ; 
For  I  've  just  got  down  to  bed  rock, 

And  the  nuggets  that  I  find, 
I  scatter  with  the  sunshine, 
On  the  trail  I  leave  behind. 

57 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

With  a  stomach  like  an  ostrich, 

And  a  glorious  appetite; 
With  a  God-sent  reciprocity 

That  greets  me  every  night, 
When  with  love  and  song  and  laughter, 

Hope  and  charity  combined, 
I  scatter  wads  of  sunshine 

On  the  trail  I  leave  behind. 

Brother,  mine,  the  Eldorado 

Where  your  soul  will  strike  it  rich, 
You  will  find  in  waifs  of  slumville 

And  your  brothers  in  the  ditch. 
Shed  your  kids  and  patent  leathers, 

To  all  ridicule  be  blind, 
For  there  's  millions  in  the  sunshine 

On  the  trail  you  leave  behind. 


A  Cure  for  Insomnia 

rHERE  'S  a  song  that  I  sing,  when  my 
soul  is  aglow 

With  the  rapture  of  love  undefiled; 
When  the  wealth  of  the  world  I  would  gladly  bestow 
For  the  innocent  laugh  of  a  child. 

58 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

When  alone  on  the  mountain  a  bright,  shining  star 
From  God's  jeweled  crown  seems  to  peep, 

While  some  one  is  holding  the  gateway  ajar, 
I  sing,  "  Mother,  rock  me  to  sleep." 

Chorus 

Rock  me  to  sleep,  let  me  dream  of  my  childhood, 
Back  to  the  mountains  and  fountains  and  wild-wood. 
Dear  mother  in  heaven,  thy  sweet  song  repeat 
And  rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  rock  me  to  sleep. 

There  's  a  song  that  I  sing  when  my  soul  is  in  tune 

With  the  birds  and  the  flow'rs  and  the  bees, 
When  green  buds  are  sprouting  and  blossoms 
abloom, 

And  laden  with  perfume,  the  breeze. 
At  night,  when  unbidden,  my  troubles  appear 

And  sometimes  I  nervously  leap, 
I  just  keep  repeating,  "  Dear  mother  is  near," 

And  then  I  sing,  "  Rock  me  to  sleep." 

Chorus 

Rock  me  to  sleep,  let  me  dream  of  my  childhood, 
Back  to  the  mountains  and  fountains  and  wild-wood. 
Dear  mother  in  heaven,  thy  sweet  song  repeat 
And  rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  rock  me  to  sleep. 

59 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

There  's  a  song  that  I  sing,  when  I  fain  would  forget 

Every  sorrow  that  darkens  my  sky, 
And  I  think  of  the  hearts  that  are  loving  me  yet, 

And  the  clouds  that  are  passing  me  by. 
In  closing  my  eyes  a  sweet  vision  appears, 

Her  vigil  she  still  seems  to  keep, 
I  think,  till  my  eyes  are  all  swimming  with  tears, 

And  mother  dear  rocks  me  to  sleep. 

Chorus 

Rock  me  to  sleep,  let  me  dream  of  my  childhood, 
Back  to  the  mountains  and  fountains  and  wild- wood. 
Dear  mother  in  heaven,  thy  sweet  song  repeat) 
And  rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  rock  me  to  sleep. 


Resigned 

'M  a-croonin'  to  de  baby 

Jes'  a  little  ebenin'  song. 
A'm  a-rockin'  ob  de  cradle, 
Kase  his  mammy  is  n't  strong. 
Fo'  she  's  been  a-workin'  steady, 
She  's  ma  honey  good  an'  kind, 
An'  ah  kain't  do  much  to  help  her 
Or  de  baby,  fo'  a  'm  blind. 

60 


BRONCHO      BOOK 

Chorus 

But  a  'm  hopin'  an'  a  'm  gropin' 

An'  a  'm  singin'  all  de  while, 
An'  it  sort  o'  cheers  ma  honey 

When  she  sees  me  wid  a  smile. 

A  'm  a-whistlin'  to  de  baby 

As  ah  hoi'  his  little  han', 
An'  ah  pray  de  Lord  to  watch  him 

Till  he  gits  to  be  a  man. 
An'  when  clouds  a-hover  over 

An'  de  win's  a-howlin'  strong, 
Ah  rock-a-bye  ma  baby 

An'  ah  sing  ma  little  song. 


Chorus 

But  a  'm  hopin'  an'  a  'm  gropin' 
An'  a  'm  singin'  all  de  while, 

An'  it  sort  o'  cheers  ma  honey 
When  she  sees  me  wid  a  smile. 

When  de  pa'son  comes  to  see  us- 
Pa'son  Sam,  so  good  an'  kind, 

He  bress  de  Lord  an'  tells  me 
Ah  is  happy  an'  resigned. 

61 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

Ah  don'  jes'  know  his  meanin' 
But  he  says  it  good  an'  strong, 

An'  he  shouts  a  hallelujah 
When  ah  sing  ma  little  song. 

Chorus 

But  a  'm  hopin'  an'  a  'm  gropin* 
An'  a  'm  singin'  all  de  while, 

An'  it  sort  o'  cheers  ma  honey 
When  she  sees  me  wid  a  smile. 


The  Music  of  Life 

A  Recitation  to  be  recited  to  music 

(  Music  "  London  Bridge  is  Falling  Down."  ) 

s  0 W  sweet,  how  fair  in  the  dawn  of 

life, 

In  the  world  with  woe  and  folly 
rife, 

To  hear  the  ring  of  childish  song, 
As  burden-bent  we  trudge  along — 

62 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

f 

And  backward,  through  the  vanished  years, 

In  childhood's  dreams  forgot  Fate's  frown, 
Our  hearts  join  in  the  children's  play 

When  "  London  Bridge  is  Falling  Down." 

II 

(Music — "  Come,  my  Love,  the  Stars  are  Shining  ") 
"  Old  Madrid  " 

O'er  "  London  Bridge" — how  short  the  span 
'Twixt  child  and  maid,  'twixt  boy  and  man  1 
The  tender  song  from  maiden  lips, 
Like  harp-strings  'neath  Love's  finger-tips, 
Is  Love's  own  heaven-born  gift  of  song, 
As  its  wings  first  flutter  in  earthly  flame, 
Ere  its  tune  grows  false  and  its  rhythm  wrong, 
And  man — not  love — is  all  to  blame. 


Ill 


(Music—"  Rock-a-bye  Baby,"  or  "  Sleep, 
Baby,  Sleep  ") 

But  sweeter  far  in  the  noon  of  life 
The  song  of  the  fairer,  happier  wife 
As  she  croons  to  her  babe  a  lullabye 
That  ringeth  a  song  of  joy  on  High. 

63 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

She  finds  a  solace  for  every  care 
In  the  rich  reward  of  Motherhood : 

The  fervent  answer  to  every  pray'r; 
The  vessel  that  holdeth  all  of  good. 

IV 

(Music — "  Rock  of  Ages  ") 

But  when  the  night  and  storm  comes  on, 
And  wife  and  mother  bows  alone, 
When  Fate  has  carried  all  away 
Who  filled  that  happier,  brighter  day ; 
With  none  to  trust  and  all  to  fear, 
Tis  then  her  faith  and  strength  we  see, 
As  through  the  storm  her  voice  rings  clear, 
"  0,  Rock  of  Ages  Cleft  for  Me!" 


(Music—"  Nearer  My  God  to  Thee  ") 

And  thus  with  calm,  unfurrowed  brow, 

To  where  the  deeper  waters  flow, 

Guided  by  unseen  hands  along, 

Turned  to  the  highest  praise  her  song — 

Fearless  of  rock,  of  hidden  reef, 

Up,  as  the  lark,  swift-winged,  will  flee 

64 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

Her  song  will  rise,  through  joy,  through  grief, 
"  Nearer,  Oh  nearer,  God,  to  Thee." 


Serenade  in  the  Hills 

HERE  are  joy  bells  in  the  drilling 

While  I  'm  shooting  through  the  hill. 
There  is  music  in  the  hammer 
As  it  bounces  from  the  drill, 
And  at  every  stroke  I  'm  thinking 
What  the  next  discharge  will  do ; 
Will  it  bring  me  luck  and  fortune? 
Will  it  bring  me  back  to  you? 

Chorus 

Love  grows  strong  in  the  mountains,  my  own, 

Hearts  in  the  wild  woods  are  true. 
Men  grow  kind  and  tender,  dear  heart, 

And  my  heart  is  sighing  for  you. 
Wait  for  me,  dearest,  I  need  your  love, 

Your  trust  you  never  shall  rue. 
A  prayer  and  a  tear,  for  your  absent  one,  dear, 

To  bring  me  to  mother  and  you. 

63 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

When  I  hear  the  night-birds  singing 

Near  my  little  mountain  home, 
When  the  stars  are  all  a-twinkle 

In  the  blue  of  heaven's  dome, 
When  the  evening  tasks  are  over 

And  there  's  no  more  work  to  do, 
Then  I  find  my  soul  is  singing 

Tender  serenades  to  you. 

Chorus 

Love  grows  strong  in  the  mountains,  my  own, 

Hearts  in  the  wild  woods  are  true. 
Men  grow  kind  and  tender,  dear  heart, 

And  my  heart  is  sighing  for  you. 
Wait  for  me,  dearest,  I  need  your  love, 

Your  trust  you  never  shall  rue. 
A  prayer  and  a  tear,  for  your  absent  one,  dear, 

To  bring  me  to  mother  and  you. 


I 


66 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

The  Optimistic  Warbler 

ING  a  cheerful  song,  or  whistle 

If  you  don't  know  how  to  sing, 
And  remember  that  the  thistle 
Beats  the  daisies  in  the  Spring ; 
That  the  gloomy  clouds  of  sorrow 
Which  o'erhang  your  sky  to-day 
Will  unfold  a  bright  to-morrow 
When  the  clouds  have  passed  away. 

Chorus 

I  'm  an  optimistic  warbler 

And  I  whistle,  laugh  and  sing, 
Bringing  gladness  out  of  sadness 

With  the  sunshine  that  I  fling. 
While  a  heap  of  satisfaction 

Snuggles  underneath  my  vest, 
As  I  laugh  and  sing  and  whistle 

Ere  I  lay  me  down  to  rest. 

Oh,  I  wish  that  I  could  muster 
On  the  heights  of  Nature's  crest, 

A  great  army  that  would  trust  her 
With  their  happiness  and  rest. 

She  would  soothe  their  every  sorrow, 
And  with  chiming  joy  bells  bring 

67 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

Floods  of  sunshine  on  the  morrow 
If  they  'd  whistle,  laugh  and  sing. 

Chorus 

I  'm  an  optimistic  warbler 

And  I  whistle,  laugh  and  sing, 
Bringing  gladness  out  of  sadness 

With  the  sunshine  that  I  fling. 
While  a  heap  of  satisfaction 

Snuggles  underneath  my  vest, 
As  I  laugh  and  sing  and  whistle 

Ere  I  lay  me  down  to  rest. 


The  Keystone  of  the  Union 

I  SOVEREIGN  state,  thy  name  we 

hail, 
Our  hearts  aglow  with  patriot 

pride, 
Thy  praises  ring  in  ev'ry  vale, 

From  ev'ry  lofty  mountain  side. 
We  love  thy  rocks,  we  love  thy  rills, 
Thy  fruitful  fields  and  rivers  broad, 
We  love  thy  old  historic  hills, 
Whose  winding  paths  our  Fathers  trod. 

68 


HE      BRONCHO      BOOK 


Chorus 

0,  mighty  state;  0,  sov'reign  state, 
Thou  bulwark  of  our  land  so  great, 
To  thee  our  love  we  consecrate, 
0,  Keystone  of  the  Union. 

Deep  in  each  mountain's  wounded  side, 

Hid  from  the  sun's  enliv'ning  beams, 
In  gloomy  caverns  dark  and  wide, 

The  lamp  of  toiling  miner  gleams. 
A  million  hearts  their  labors  cheer, 

Their  product  spreads  o'er  land  and  sea, 
It  gladdens  homes  in  ev'ry  sphere, 

And  drives  the  wheels  of  Industry. 


Chorus 

0,  mighty  state ;  0,  sov'reign  state, 
Thou  bulwark  of  our  land  so  great, 
To  thee  our  love  we  consecrate, 
O,  Keystone  of  the  Union. 

When  war's  alarm  swept  o'er  the  land, 
And  treason's  hand  on  Sumpter  fell, 

Thy  loyal  sons  with  valor  grand 
Upheld  the  cause  they  loved  so  well. 

69 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

On  many  a  field  with  crimson  stained, 

And  on  the  ever  restless  sea, 
Thy  honor  well  their  arms  maintained, 

Thy  flag  they  bore  to  victory. 

Chorus 

0,  mighty  state ;  0,  sov'reign  state, 
Thou  bulwark  of  our  land  so  great, 
To  thee  our  love  we  consecrate, 
0,  Keystone  of  the  Union. 

We  honor  those  who  fought  and  bled 

When  Duty  called  our  warrior  braves ; 
We  bless  the  mem'ry  of  the  dead, 

Now  sleeping  in  their  honored  graves. 
Should  e'er  again  the  trumpet  sound, 

And  guns  in  angry  discord  roar, 
Thy  loyal  sons  would  rally  round 

The  flag  their  sires  so  nobly  bore. 

Chorus 

0,  mighty  state ;  0,  sov'reign  state, 
Thou  bulwark  of  our  land  so  great, 
To  thee  our  love  we  consecrate, 
O,  Keystone  of  the  Union. 


70 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

Come  Back,  Papa 

Y  heart  was  bowed  down  with 
sadness, 

My  soul  was  aflame  with  despair, 
When  a  voice  with  a  ripple  of  gladness 

Came  floating  to  me  through  the  air, — 
The  voice  of  a  little  one,  ringing 

Like  joy  bells  from  over  the  lea. 
And  this  is  the  song  she  was  singing : 
"  Oh,  come  back,  dear  papa,  to  me." 

Chorus 

"  Come  back  to  me,  Oh,  come  back  to  me ; 
Mama  and  Dolly  are  watching  for  thee. 
Come  back,  dear  papa,  from  over  the  sea; 
Mama  and  baby  are  waiting  for  thee." 

My  arms  were  soon  folded  around  her, 

She  snuggled  close  up  to  my  breast ; 
I  blessed  the  dear  spot  where  I  found  her, 

And  carried  her  into  our  nest. 
And  while  'round  my  neck  she  was  clinging, 

The  sunburst  of  love  seemed  to  be 
Aflame  in  the  soul  that  was  singing, 

"  Oh,  come  back,  dear  papa,  to  me." 


71 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

Chorus 

"  Come  back  to  me,  Oh,  come  back  to  me ; 
Mama  and  Dolly  are  watching  for  thee. 
Come  back,  dear  papa,  from  over  the  sea; 
Mama  and  baby  are  waiting  for  thee." 


Or  Bill  Reynolds's  'Dopted  Boy 

£  all  looked  down  on  the  little  cuss 
When  he  come  to  school  with  the  rest 

of  us, 

Just  'cause  he  war'  an  adopted  boy, 
From  an  orphan  'sylum  in  Illinoy. 
He  had  no  parents,  leastwise  he  said, 
Fur  all  he  knowed  both  on  'em  war'  dead — 
"  Died  'fore  I  was  born,"  he  said  to  me, 
Wen  I  chaffed  him  about  his  pedigree. 

He  did  n't  seem  fur  to  have  a  bit 

O'  fightin'  metal  or  spunky  grit, 

But  tuk  our  slurs  in  a  quiet  way, 

An'  endured  our  torments  day  after  day, 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

Without  so  much  as  a  sass-back  word, 
No  matter  how  off 'n  or  hard  we  spurred ; 
The  butt  o'  the  scholards  fur  wicked  fun 
War'  01'  Bill  Reynolds's  'dopted  son. 

He  larnt  his  lessons — the  teacher  said, 
W'en  the  term  war'  over  he  'd  be  ahead 
Of  all  us  scholards,  sartin  an'  shore, 
If  we  did  n't  'tend  to  our  knittin'  more. 
An'  w'en  the  examination  come, 
The  Board  o'  Directors  jes'  struck  us  dumb 
By  givin'  the  prizes,  every  one, 
To  01'  Bill  Reynolds's  'dopted  son. 

This  made  us  wild,  an'  we  up  an'  swore 
We  would  n't  go  to  that  school  no  more 
Unless  the  Directors  'd  fix  it  so 
That  little  reperbate  could  n't  go. 
But  afore  the  school  tuk  up  we  heard 
That  01'  Bill  Reynolds  somehow  perferred 
To  send  him  into  the  city,  whar' 
A  big,  hifalutin'  academy  war'. 

He  come  to  Bill's  on  a  visit  twice, 
Dressed  up  an'  lookin'  uncommon  nice, 
But  never  showed  up  on  the  village  street, 
Jes'  like  he  was  'feard  of  us  boys  he  'd  meet. 


73 


THE      BRONCHO     BOOK 

* 

'T  war'  a  wise  perceedin',  fur  none  of  us 
'D  associate  with  the  nameless  cuss 
That  had  no  pedigree  more  'n  the  one 
Of  01'  Bill  Reynolds's  'dopted  son. 

It  sorter  surprised  us  w'en  some  one  read 
A  piece  in  the  city  paper  'at  said 
That  Honer'ble  Senator  Blake  had  set 
On  him  fur  a  West  Point  School  cadet. 
01'  Bill  moved  East,  an'  we  never  heard 
'Mongst  all  us  boys  not  another  word, 
Till  the  big  Secession  War  'd  begun, 
Of  01'  Bill  Reynolds's  'dopted  son. 

Most  of  us  ol*  schoolfellers  went 

At  the  fust  break-out  o'  the  devilment, 

An'  I  reckon  thar'  was  n't  a  wilder  cuss 

Than  me  in  that  hull  rebellion  muss. 

Dissipatin'  an'  playin'  cards, 

The  scum  o'  the  rigiment  fur  my  pards — 

Never  stopped  fur  a  breathin'  spell 

In  my  reckless  run  fur  the  gates  o'  hell  I 

It  seems  like  a  nightmare,  lookin'  back — 
A  gamblin'  quarrel— a  pistol's  crack — 
A  schoolboy  comrade  by  my  hand  slain — 
A  hand  impelled  by  a  rum-crazed  brain. 

74 


THE      BRONCHO     BOOK 

The  dread  court-martial,  my  quick-drawn  breath, 
As  I  heard  the  words,  "  To  be  shot  to  death !" 
The  nameless  terror  that  clung  to  me 
As  I  peered  o'er  the  brink  of  eternity ! 

My  mother  came,  with  her  pale,  sad  face, 
From  our  village  home  to  my  prison  place — 
Came  with  the  old-time,  glad  voice  hushed — 
Came  with  a  heart  my  hand  had  crushed, 
Kissed  and  embraced  me  as  of  yore, 
Called  me  her  darling  o'er  and  o'er, 
Humbly  knelt  by  my  side  and  prayed 
That  the  stern  hand  of  justice  might  be  stayed. 

Her  face  reflected  her  heart's  keen  pains 
As  she  heard  the  ring  o'  my  clankin'  chains ; 
Eyes  that  beamed  love  in  the  bygone  years 
Were  dulled  with  sorrow's  most  bitter  tears. 
Her  hand  on  my  burnin'  head  she  laid, 
An'  bade  me  pray  as  I  never  prayed, 
As  for  me  with  trembling  steps  she  went 
With  one  last  hope  to  the  General's  tent. 

The  ensuin'  hour  seemed  a  year  to  me 
As  I  waited  thar'  in  my  misery. 
The  sentry  with  sympathetic  face 
Marched  to  and  fro  with  a  funeral  pace. 

75 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

O'er  the  face  o'  the  sun  thar'  crept  a  cloud, 

Filmy  and  white  as  a  coffin  shroud, 

An'  a  raven  on  distant  wooded  slope 

Seemed  to  croak  the  warnin' :  "  No  hope,  No  hope !" 

Down  through  the  aisles  o'  the  tented  camp 
Came  a  squad  of  guards  with  a  tramp,  tramp,  tramp. 
Half  dazed  I  marched  'mid  the  glistenin'  guns, 
Borne  proudly  by  Union's  blue-clad  sons, 
Marched  to  headquarters  an'  stood  before 
The  great  commander,  whose  broad  brow  wore 
Undyin'  laurels  his  skill  had  won 
On  a  dozen  fields  'neath  the  Southern  Sun. 

My  brain  war'  awhirl !  The  events  now  seem 
As  the  shadowy  memories  of  a  dream ; 
The  smile  o'  my  mother,  sad  but  sweet, 
As  she  sat  on  a  stool  at  the  General's  feet. 
I  can  see  the  General's  courtly  grace, 
As  he  raised  his  eyes  to  my  pallid  face — 
"  My  boy,  your  mother's  prayers  have  won ; 
You  are  pardoned — by  Reynolds's  'dopted  son  I" 


76 


THE'   BRONCHO     BOOK 

The  Veteran  and  His  Grandson 

OLD  on !  Hold  on !  My  goodness,  you  take 

my  breath,  my  son, 
A-firin'  questions  at  me,  like  shots  from 

a  Gatlin'  gun: 

Why  do  I  wear  this  eagle  an'  flag  an'  brazen  star, 
An'  why  do  my  old  eyes  glisten  when  somebody 

mentions  war? 
An'  why  do  I  call  men  "  comrade,"  an'  why  do  my 

eyes  grow  bright 
When  you  hear  me  tell  your  grandma  I  'm  going 

to  post  to-night? 
Come  here,  you  inquisitive  rascal,  an'  set  on  your 

grandpa's  knee, 

An'  I  '11  try  an'  answer  the  broadsides  you  've  been 
a-firin'  at  me. 

* 

Away  back  there  in  the  sixties,  long  afore  you  were 

born, 
The  news  come  a-flashin'  to  us,  one  bright  and  sunny 

morn, 
That  some  of  our  Southern  brothers,  a-thinkin',  no 

doubt,  'twar'  right, 
Had  trained  their  guns  on  our  banner,  and  opened 

a  nasty  fight ; 
The  great  big  guns  war'  a-boomin,'an'  the  shot  flyin' 

thick  an'  fast, 

77 


THE     BRONCHO      BOOK 

An'  troops  all  over  the  Southland  were  rapidly  being 

massed ; 
An'  a  thrill  went  through  the  nation,  a  fear  that  our 

glorious  land 
Might  be  split,  divided  an'  ruined  by  mistaken  brother's 

hand. 

Lord !  but  wa'n't  there  excitement,  an'  did  n't  the  boys' 

eyes  flash! 
An'  did  n't  we  cuss  our  brothers  for  being  so  foolish 

and  rash ! 
An'  did  n't  we  raise  the  neighbors  with  loud  an' 

continued  cheers 
When  ol'  Abe  sent  out  that  document  a-callin' 

for  volunteers! 
An'  did  n't  we  flock  to  the  standard  when  the  drums 

began  to  beat — 
An'  did  n't  we  march  with  strong,  proud  step  along 

the  village  street ! 
An'  did  n't  the  people  cheer  us  when  we  got  aboard 

the  cars, 
With  the  flag  a-wavin'  o'er  us,  and  we  went  away 

to  the  wars ! 

I  '11  never  forget  your  grandma  as  she  stood  outside 

o'  the  train, 
Her  face  as  white  as  a  snowdrift,  her  tears  a-fallin' 

like  rain — 

78 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

She  stood  there  quiet  and  deathlike,  'mid  all  o'  the  rush 

and  noise, 
For  the  war  were  a-takin'  from  her,  her  husband 

and  three  brave  boys — 
Bill,  Charley  and  little  Tommy — just  turned  eighteen, 

but  as  true 

An'  gallant  a  little  soldier  as  ever  wore  the  blue ; 
It  seemed  almost  like  murder  for  to  tear  her  poor 

heart  so, 
But  your  grandad  could  n't  stay,  baby,  an'  the  boys 

war'  determined  to  go. 

The  evenin'  afore  we  started  she  called  the  boys 

to  her  side, 
An'  told  'em  as  how  they  war'  always  their  mother's 

joy  an'  pride; 
An'  though  her  soul  was  in  torture,  an'  her  poor  heart 

bleedin'  an'  sore, 
An'  though  she  needed  her  darlings,  the  country 

needed  'em  more. 
She  told  'em  to  do  their  duty,  wherever  their  feet 

might  roam, 
An'  to  never  forget  in  battle  their  mother  war'  prayin' 

at  home ; 
An'  if  ( an'  the  tears  nigh  choked  her)  they  should  fall 

in  front  o'  the  foe, 
She  'd  go  to  her  blessed  Savior  an'  ax  Him  to  lighten 

the  blow. 

79 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

Bill  lays  an'  awaits  the  summons  'neath  Spott- 
sylvania's  sod, 

An'  on  the  field  of  Antietam  Charley's  spirit  went 
back  to  God; 

An'  Tommy,  our  baby  Tommy,  we  buried  one  star 
lit  night 

Along  with  his  fallen  comrades,  just  after  the  Wilder 
ness  fight. 

The  lightnin'  struck  our  family  tree,  an'  stripped  it 
of  every  limb, 

A-leavin'  only  this  bare  old  trunk,  a-standin'  alone 
an'  grim. 

My  boy,  that 's  why  your  grandma,  when  you  kneel 
to  the  God  you  love, 

Makes  you  ax  Him  to  watch  your  uncles,  an'  make  'em 
happy  above. 


That 's  why  you  sometimes  see  her  with  tear-drops 

in  her  eyes ; 
That 's  why  you  sometimes  catch  her  a-tryin'  to  hide 

her  sighs ; 
That 's  why  at  our  great  reunions  she  looks  so  solemn 

and  sad; 
That 's  why  her  heart  seems  a-breakin'  when  the  boys 

are  jolly  an'  glad ; 
That 's  why  you  sometimes  find  her  in  the  bedroom 

overhead, 

80 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

Down  on  her  knees  a-prayin',  with  their  pictures 

laid  out  on  the  bed ; 
That 's  why  the  old-time  brightness  will  light  up  her 

face  no  more, 
Till  she  meets  her  hero  warriors  in  the  camp  on  the 

other  shore. 

An'  when  the  great  war  was  over,  back  came  the 

veterans  true, 
With  not  one  star  a-missin'  from  that  azure  field 

of  blue; 
An'  the  boys,  who  on  field  o'  battle  had  stood  the 

fiery  test, 
Formed  posts  o'  the  Grand  Army  in  the  North,  South, 

East  an'  West. 
Fraternity,  Charity,  Loyalty,  is  the  motto  'neath  which 

they  train — 
Their  object  to  care  for  the  helpless,  an'  banish 

sorrow  an'  pain 
From  the  homes  o'  the  widows  an'  orphans  o'  the  boys 

who  have  gone  before, 
To  answer  their  name  at  roll-call,  in  God's  Grand 

Army  Corps. 

An'  that 's  why  we  wear  these  badges,  the  eagle 

an'  flag  an'  star, 
Worn  only  by  veteran  heroes  who  fought  in  that 

bloody  war ; 

81 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

An'  that 's  why  my  old  eyes  glisten  while  talking 

about  the  fray, 
An'  that 's  why  I  call  men  "  comrade  "  when  I  meet 

'em  every  day ; 
An'  that 's  why  I  tell  your  grandma,  "  I  'm  going 

to  post  to-night," 
For  there  's  where  I  meet  the  old  boys  who  stood 

with  me  in  the  fight. 
And,  my  child,  that 's  why  I  've  taught  you  to  love 

an'  revere  these  men 
Who  come  here  a-wearin'  badges,  to  fight  their 

battles  again. 


For  they  are  gallant  heroes  who  stood  'mid  shot 

an'  shell, 
An*  followed  those  flying  colors  right  into  the  mouth 

o'hell; 
They  are  the  men  whose  valor  saved  this  land  from 

disgrace  an'  shame, 
An'  lifted  her  back  in  triumph  to  her  perch  on  the 

dome  o'  fame ; 
An'  as  long  as  you  live,  my  darling,  till  your  lips 

in  death  are  mute, 
When  you  see  that  badge  on  a  bosom,  take  off  your 

hat  an'  salute ; 
An'  if  any  ol'  vet  should  halt  you,  an'  question  why 

you  do, 

82 


THE      BRONCHO     BOOK 

Just  tell  him  you  've  got  a  right  to,  for  your  grandad's 
a  comrade,  too. 


I 


At  the  Mission  Door 

LITTLE  newsboy,   weeping, 

stood 

Outside  the  Waif's  Retreat; 
A  shaggy  dog,  his  only  friend, 

Was  crouching  at  his  feet 
With  attitude  of  perfect  trust, 

And  tender,  lovelit  eye. 
I  saw  the  boy  bend  over  him 
With  tear- wet  cheek  and  sigh. 

I  asked  him  why  those  bitter  tears ; 

He  turned  away  his  head, 
And  answered:    "Dere  's  me  only  frien' 

Since  dad  and  mam  is  dead. 
An'  dose  folks  in  de  Mission  say 

Dat  Tip — he  can't  come  in ; 
Dat  lovin'  of  a  dog  like  dis 

Ain't  notin'  but  a  sin. 

83 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

"  Well,  boss,  I  don't  know  notin'  much, 

But  say,  when  mudder  died 
Tip  foun'  me  at  her  grave  at  night, 

An'  laid  down  by  me  side ; 
An'  when  I  cried  dere  all  alone 

His  head  was  on  me  knee, 
An'  sometin'  in  his  eyes  jes'  said 

He  'd  be  a  frien'  to  me. 


"  Now,  boss,  you  look  into  dem  eyes, 

An'  say  if  he  can't  speak. 
I  tells  yer,  Tip 's  a  gentleman, 

If  he  ain't  nice  and  sleek. 
He  don't  snap  like  no  low-down  cur, 

His  ways  is  high  an'  fine ; 
An'  when  I  t'ink  how  good  he  is 

I  *m  mighty  proud  he  's  mine." 


Tip  seemed  to  feel  his  master's  praise, 

He  looked  so  very  wise, 
As  though  some  sad,  imprisoned  soul 

Were  shining  through  his  eyes. 
I  took  the  boy's  brown  hand  in  mine 

And  wiped  his  tears  away ; 
I  told  him  that  no  nobler  friend 

Had  man  on  earth  to-day. 

84 


THE      BRONCHO     BOOK 

Both  boy  and  dog  crept  to  my  heart, 

And  they  have  now  become 
The  sunshine  on  my  cheerless  hearth 

The  blessings  of  my  home. 
And  all  that  I  shall  ask  of  Him 

Who  keeps  the  heavenly  log — 
May  I  be  worthy  that  boy's  love, 

The  friendship  of  his  dog. 


Thar'  Was  Jim 

ILDEST  boy  in  all  the 

village, 
Up  to  every  wicked  lark, 
Happy  at  a  chance  to  pillage 
Melon  patches  in  the  dark. 
Seemed  a  'tarnal  mischief  breeder, 

Fur  in  every  wicked  whim, 
Put  your  hand  upon  the  leader — 
Thar'  was  Jim. 

He  war'  eighteen  when  the  summons 
Come  for  Union  volunteers, 

An'  the  fifin's  an'  the  drummin's 
An'  the  patriotic  cheers, 

85 


THE      BRONCHO      B  O  O  K 

Made  us  with  excitement  dance,  Sir — 
Even  old  men,  staid  and  prim ; 

An'  among  the  fust  to  answer, 
Thar'  was  Jim. 

One  day  when  Gin'ral  wanted 

Volunteers  to  charge  a  place       fc 
Whar'  the  rebel  banners  flaunted 

Imperdently  in  our  face, 
Seemed  as  though  the  cannons'  bellers 

Had  no  skeerishness  for  him, 
Fur  among  the  foremost  fellers, 

Thar'  was  Jim. 

How  we  cheered  'em  at  the  startin' 

On  that  fearful  charge  they  made. 
Fur  it  seemed  that  death  was  sartin 

In  that  fiery  ambuscade. 
Once  the  smoke  riz  up  a-showin' 

Them  as  up  the  hill  they  clim', 
An'  ahead,  an'  still  a-goin', 

Thar'  was  Jim. 

Git  thar'?  Wai,  yer  jest  a-screamin', 
Nothin'  could  have  stopped  them  men, 

Each  one  seemed  a  howlin'  demon 
Chargin'  on  a  fiery  pen. 

86 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

Purty  tough  w'en  next  I  found  him, 
Fur  with  face  all  black  an'  grim, 

Dead,  with  dead  men  all  around  him, 
Thar'  was  Jim. 

Friend  o'  mine?  I  reckon,  sorter- 
Met  him  fust  one  winter  night — 

Lord!  but  wan't  that  storm  a  snorter 
W'en  I  went  fur  Doctor  White  I 

W'en  I  heard  my  wife  a-pleadin' 
Me  to  come  an'  look  at  him, 

Lyin'  in  her  arms  a-feedin', 
Thar'  was  Jim. 


" 
fit 


The  Heavenly  Telephone 

HEN  baby  Bess  knelt  at  my  knee  to  say 

her  evening  prayer, 
She  cutely  asked  me  if  it  went  by  telephone 

up  there. 
And  wondered  why  the  Master  did  n't  answer  right 

away 

Just  as  her  papa  answered  from  the  office  every  day. 
Next  morn  I  found  her  at  the  'phone,  tiptoeing 
on  a  chair 

87 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

And  crying,  "  Hello,  Central,"  with  such  a  roguish 

air. 
She  said,  "  Now,  mama,  go  away ;  this  talk  is  all 

my  own. 
I  want  to  ask  Dod  if  he  hears  the  pares  I  telephone." 

In  one  short  week  our  baby  lay  upon  her  dying  bed, 
And  ev'ry  heart  seemed  breaking,  as  in  feeble  tones 

she  said, 
"  I  'm  going  up  to  Heaven,  where  the  little  angels 

play, 

And  I  will  be  an  angel,  too,  if  I  can  find  the  way ; 
But,  mama,  dear,  I  'm  'fraid  I  '11  be  so  lonesome 

when  I  go, 
Because  I  ain't  acquainted  with  a  soul  up  there, 

you  know; 
But  if  you  '11  kneel  down  by  my  bed,  I  '11  try  real  hard 

to  wait 
Until  you  telephone  to  God  to  meet  me  at  the  gate." 

The  baby's  wished-for  message  from  a  bleeding  heart 

was  sent, 
And  then  her  spotless  spirit  to  the  heavenly  mansions 

went, 
There  at  the  pearly  gates  I  know  the  loving 

Master  stood 
To  welcome  her  with  gentle  smile  as  she  so  hoped 

He  would. 

88 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

Her  prattling  voice  forever  will  be  lingering  in  my  ear, 
And  when  I  miss  her  toddling  step,  and  all  seems  dark 

and  drear, 
I  seek  the  quiet  churchyard,  where  we  laid  her  'neath 

the  sod, 
And  kneeling  by  her  little  grave,  I  "  telephone  " 

to  God. 


Hello,  Central 

XT  was  Christmas  eve  and  Central  heard  a 
robust  voice  exclaim : 
"  What 's  the  reason  I  can't  get  her?  Please, 

oh,  please  do  try  again. 
Thanks ;  you  're  awful  kind.  Oh,  how  I  want  to  hear 

her  voice  once  more 
As  I  heard  it  in  the  garden,  in  the  glad  old  days  of  yore. 

Hello,  Central !  Hello,  Central !  Hell— o ! yes,  yes, 

if  you  please. 
No,  I  have  n't  got  her  yet — my !  it 's  cold  enough 

to  freeze! 
Out  in  country?  Yes,  I  know  it.  Send  a  cab  to  bring 

her  in? 

I  must  talk  to  her — God  bless  her — Don't  you  dare 
to  wink  and  grin. 

89 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

Have  n't  seen  her  for  a  year,  Sir.  Oh,  I  want  to  hear 

her  voice 
And  the  music  of  her  laughter — won't  her  waiting 

heart  rejoice, 
When  she  knows  that  I  'm  returning,  that  I  've  kept 

the  vow  I  swore 
To  be  true  and  brave  and  sober!  See,  this  is  the  ring 

she  wore ; 
And  she  placed  it  on  my  finger,  while  the  tears 

ran  down  her  cheek, 
As  she  said :  '  Good  bye,  God  bless  you ;  trust  in  Him, 

for  flesh  is  weak.' 
And  the  brilliant  gems  that  sparkled  from  the  casket 

of  her  soul 
Lit  the  pathway  of  temptation — kept  me  ever 

in  control; 
And  I  saw  those  shining  glories  in  the  twinkle 

of  the  stars, 
In  the  dew-drops  on  the  daisies,  in  the  blood  of  battle 

scars. 
And  in  dreams  I  saw  her  standing,  as  I  seem  to  see 

her  now, 
In  the  garden  where  we  parted— with  a  halo 

on  her  brow, 
And— Hello !  What 's  that?  Yes,  dearest.  This  is  Tommy 

at  the  'phone. 
Are  you  well,  dear  heart?  And  happy?  Darling, 

I  am  coming  home ! 

90 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

Yes,  to-morrow  I  shall  see'you  with  a  world  of  love 

and  cheer, 
Dearest,  sweetest,  earthly  angel — Good  night 

darling,  Mother  dear." 


Sister 
A  Wartime  Story 

HE  bore  a  cross  on  the  sunniest  face 
I  have  ever  seen.  There  seemed  no  trace 
Of  sorrow  or  sadness  upon  her  brow. 
In  her  sable  garments  I  see  her  now 
As  she  stood  by  my  cot,  when  a  soldier  boy, 
And  brought  to  the  wounded  a  gleam  of  joy. 


I  was  thinking  of  mother  one  cloudy  day, 
When  she  took  my  hand  in  a  motherly  way, 
And  it  seemed  so  easy  for  her  to  smile 
As  she  smoothed  my  pillow  so  tender  the  while 
And  said,  a  tear  and  a  smile  on  her  face, 
"Let  me  sit  for  a  moment  in  mother's  place. '  * 

91 


THE      BRONCHO     BOOK 

Her  soft  hand  touched  my  aching  head ; 
It  seemed  but  an  instant — all  pain  had  fled. 
And  as  I  closed  my  eyes  she  wept. 
Her  cross  seemed  heavier  while  I  slept, 
For  none  were  there  to  mark  the  change 
Which  made  her  face  so  sadly  strange. 

But  when  I  awoke,  I  found  her  there 
With  smile  as  sweet  and  free  from  care. 
Whatever  secret,  pain  or  woe, 
Her  own  brave  heart  was  doomed  to  know, 
None  marred  the  sunshine  spread  for  me 
By  that  sweet  Sister  of  Charity. 


Bronte 
A  Bit  of  Dogral 

rHEY  say  I  am  a  tricky  dog. 
Not  so— 
I  think,  I  reason,  else  how  can  I 

know 
What  those  who  love  and  feed  me  think 

about? 
If  you  are  honest  I  will  bark  it  out. 

92 


THE      BRONCHO     BOOK 

Taught  first  by  love  and  kindness  to  obey, 
Instinct  and  reason  then  began  to  play, 
And  when  I  heard  "to  be  or  not  to  be," 
I  wondered  if  there  was  a  heaven  for  me. 

Have  you  a  soul?  Then  look  into  rny  eyes 
And  see  reflected  there  without  disguise 
The  purest  love  that  soul  has  ever  given, 
And  if  for  dogs  like  me  there  is  no  heaven, 
Then  woe  is  me,  alas,  alas,  alack, 
God  pity  Master  Will— and  CAPT.  JACK. 


The  Shadow  of  a  Curse 

XSAW  it  first  when  roses  bloomed 
Upon  the  cheek  pressed  close  to  mine ; 
When  in  her  arms  I  laughed  and 

crooned, 

And  I,  a  bit  of  God's  sunshine, 
Was  sent  to  seal  her  woman's  love- 
To  bind  her  closer  to  her  fate. 
No  trusting,  cooing  turtle-dove 
Was  ever  truer  to  her  mate, 

93 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

I  saw  it  as  a  toddling  child, 

Nor  knew  the  cause  of  mother's  tears, 
Till  later — reckless  though,  and  wild, 

I  shared  in  all  her  hopes  and  fears. 
I  saw  it  snatch  the  crust  of  bread 

From  lips  of  starving  child,  and  then 
I  saw  it  lay  its  victims  dead, 

In  home  and  church  and  prison  pen. 

I  saw  it  in  the  humble  cot 

Amid  the  towering  pines  afar ; 
I  saw  it  in  degraded  sot, 

A  libel  foul  of  what  we  are. 
And  stalking  through  the  busy  marts 

Of  towns  and  cities  every  day, 
You  '11  find  it  breaking  tender  hearts 

And  dooming  manhood  to  decay. 

You  '11  see  it  drive  away  the  blush 

That  steals,  a  halo,  to  the  cheek, 
And  in  its  stead  a  burning  flush 

Will  change,  with  shame,  the  pure  and 

meek. 
It  comes  in  spite  of  woman's  tears, 

In  spite  of  mother's  strong  appeals, 
And  hearts,  deep  sorrowing  for  years, 

Are  crushed  'neath  its  relentless  wheels. 

94 


THE      B  RONCHO      BOOK 

It  comes  to  murder  innocence — 

To  torture  ere  the  final  blow- 
To  hold  its  victims  in  suspense, 

While  knowing  death  is  sure,  though  slow. 
And  while  misleading  mother's  boys, 

With  painted  sirens  for  a  bait — 
Poor  fool !  he  plays  with  the  decoys, 

And  pays  the  cost,  alas !  too  late. 


It  comes  to  dig  a  million  graves 

Of  noblest  men  God  ever  made. 
Great  hearts  and  brains  are  quickest  slaves, 

And  easiest  started  down  the  grade. 
Of  all  the  plagues  that  ever  spread, 

And  all  the  instruments  to  slay, 
None  ever  claimed  so  many  dead 

As  Demon  Drink  can  claim  to-day. 


And  yet,  if  people  would  but  think 

Of  all  the  bitterness  and  woe 
That  come  from  the  foul  fountain's  brink — 

With  aching  hearts  and  heads  bowed  low, 
They  would  suppress  this  crying  curse, 

And  make  our  country  grandly  free, 
Increasing  wealth  of  brain  and  purse, 

And  truly  give  us  liberty. 

95 


THE      BRONCHO     BOOK 

A  Message  from  the  Dead 

were    playmates. 
Little  Tommy 
Was    the    sweetest, 

brightest  boy 
I  had  ever  known,  the  object 

Of  his  mother's  pride  and  joy. 
I  had  oft  heard  people  saying, 

"He  will  make  his  mark  some  day;  " 
But  I  saw  that  mother  praying 
When  they  led  her  son  astray. 


I  remember — oh  how  vivid 

Comes  the  picture  that  I  saw — 
When  I  found  my  comrade,  Tommy, 

In  the  clutches  of  the  law ; 
And  a  broken-hearted  mother 

With  a  dry  and  anguished  eye 
Kissed  her  darling  boy  at  parting 

When  she  left  him — but  to  die. 


Cigarettes — they  were  the  starter, 
Then  dime-novels  with  their  curse ; 

Then  't  was  wine  and  wicked  women 
Leading  Tom  from  bad  to  worse, 

96 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

Till  at  last  he  died  in  prison 

In  a  felon's  narrow  cell, 
And  he  bade  me  give  the  warning 

Of  the  road  that  leads  to  Hell. 

Boys,  I  wish  that  I  could  tell  you 

While  the  tears  are  in  my  eyes, 
When  my  soul  is  irrigated, 

Of  the  false  pretense  and  lies 
That  are  told  by  men  you  worship 

In  your  honest  innocence. 
And  the  papers  help  to  boom  them 

In  their  vicious,  false  pretense. 

This  is  just  a  simple  story, 

But,  so  help  me  God,  't  is  true ; 
And  my  dying  comrade,  Tommy, 

Bade  me  tell  it  straight  to  you. 
Will  you  heed  this  honest  warning 

When  to-night  you  go  to  bed? 
Think  it  over  and  remember 

It  's  a  message  from  the  dead. 


I 


97 


THE      B  R  O  NCHO      BOOK 
Mother's  Prayers 

Written  under  a  pine  tree  in  the  Black  Hills 
in  June,  1876 

KN  the  dreary  hours  of  midnight, 
When  the  camp  's  asleep  and  still, 
Not  a  sound  save  rippling  streamlets, 
Or  the  voice  of  Whippoorwill, 
Then  I  think  of  dear,  loved  faces, 

As  I  steal  around  my  beat — 
Think  of  other  scenes  and  places, 
And  a  mother's  voice  so  sweet. 

Mother,  who  in  days  of  childhood, 

Prayed  as  only  mothers  pray : 
"Guard  his  footsteps  in  the  wild- wood, 

Let  him  not  be  led  astray!" 
And  when  danger  hovered  o'er  me, 

When  my  life  was  full  of  cares, 
Then  a  sweet  form  passed  before  me, 

And  I  thought  of  mother's  prayers. 

Mother's  prayers!  Ah!  sacred  memory, 
I  can  hear  her  sweet  voice  now, 

As  upon  her  death-bed  lying, 
With  her  hand  upon  my  brow, 

98 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

Calling  on  a  Savior's  blessing, 

Ere  she  climbed  the  Golden  Stairs. 

There  's  a  sting  in  all  transgressing, 
When  I  think  of  mother's  prayers. 

And  I  made  her  one  dear  promise — 

Thank  the  Lord,  I  've  kept  it,  too ; 
Yes,  I  promised  God  and  mother 

To  the  Pledge  I  would  be  true. 
Though  a  hundred  times  the  tempter 

Every  day  throws  out  his  snares, 
I  can  boldly  answer,  "No,  Sir!" 

When  I  think  of  mother's  prayers. 

And  while  here  I  tell  the  story 

Why  my  boyhood's  days  were  sad, 
Is  there  not  some  boy  before  me 

Who  will  make  a  mother  glad? 
Swell  her  heart  with  fond  emotion, 

Drive  away  life's  bitter  cares, 
Sign  and  keep  the  Pledge  for  mother — 

Heed,  oh,  heed  her  earnest  prayers ! 

Oh,  my  brother,  do  not  drink  it, 
Think  of  all  your  mother  said ; 

While  upon  her  death-bed  lying — 
Or  perhaps  she  is  not  dead ; 

99 


THE      BRONCHO     BOOK 

< 
Don 't  you  kill  her,  then,  I  pray  you, 

She  has  quite  enough  of  cares ; 
Sign  the  Pledge,  and  God  will  help  you 
If  you  '11  think  of  mother's  prayers. 


A  Plea  to  the  Boys 

Y  most  sincere  and  earnest 

prayer, 

Is  not  for  wealth  or  fame — 
And  yet  my  castles  in  the  air 

Keep  growing,  just  the  same. 
And  if  at  times  I  sigh  for  wealth — 

I  say  it  frank  and  true — 
I  want  not  riches  for  myself, 
But  for  the  good  't  will  do ! 

And  what  I  want  to  do— and  do 

When  fortune  favors  me, 
Is  just  to  find  a  boy  or  two 

And  tell  them  earnestly, 
Impressed  with  all  sincerity, 

Which  boys  can  understand — 
Recount  with  all  austerity 

The  truth  at  my  command. 
100 


THE      B  R  O  N  C  H  O      BOO  K 

I  like  to  talk  to  reckless  boys, — 

The  black  sheep  and  the  rest, 
About  the  sorrows  and  the  joys 

Of  roughing  it  out  West. 
And  how  a  thousand  boys  or  more 

On  false,  dime-novel  trails, 
Who  ran  away  in  days  of  yore, 

Are  now  in  Western  jails. 


Oh,  if  the  boys  will  only  heed 

The  truth,  that  I  know  best, 
I  'm  sure  they  never  more  would  read 

Those  nightmares  of  the  West. 
And  all  the  long-haired  scouts  who  claim 

They  took  scalps  by  the  score 
Have  lied — they  only  gained  their  fame 

As  showmen,  nothing  more. 


Suppose  you  found  a  rattlesnake 

Coiled  up  beside  his  nest; 
You  would  n't  pick  him  up  and  take 

His  snakeship  to  your  breast? 
Well,  boys,  the  man  who  signs  his  name 

To  stories  such  as  these, 
Will  strike  and  sting  you  just  the  same. 

Don't  read  such  nonsense,  please. 
101 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

And  so,  dear  boys,  my  daily  prayer 

Is  not  for  wealth  or  fame ; 
But  I  have  had  to  do  and  dare 

A  lot,  in  honor's  name. 
And  all  I  ask  is  for  a  chance 

To  prove  this  lesson  true, 
My  broncho  soul  will  be  a-dance 

When  I  can  talk  to  you. 

Some  day  I  mean  to  organize 

A  Juvenile  Crusade, 
With  honest  hearts  and  sunlit  eyes, 

"Determined,  unafraid," 
To  march  to  Washington  en  mass, 

And  there  unmask  the  fakes — 
To  pray  our  law-makers  to  pass 

An  act  to  kill  the  snakes. 


In  Donegal 

[,  would  that  I  again  a  boy  could  be, 
Roaming  barefooted  by  the  Irish  Sea ; 
My  world  so  small, 

Watching  the  flocks  that  grazed  beyond  the  shore, 
Wrapped  in  the  cast-off  coat  my  father  wore, 

In  Donegal. 
102 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

I  see  myself,  bareheaded  in  the  breeze, 
Wading  the  shoals,  salt  water  to  my  knees. 

The  sea-gulls  call 

In  wake  of  passing  ships  that  greeted  me, 
En  route  to  God's  sweet  land  of  liberty, 

From  Donegal. 

Then  comes  a  loved  vision  on  the  strand — 
A  blue -eyed  Irish  lass  who  took  my  hand 

In  hers  so  small, 

And  said  to  me,  in  accents  sweet  and  low, 
"You'll  ne'er  forget  the  girl  that  loved  you  so, 

In  Donegal. " 

Oh,  sweet  and  holy  love  of  ten  years  old, 
Mary  of  Donegal  with  hair  of  gold, 

With  rippling  fall. 

"Good  bye,  God  bless  you,  little  playmate,  Jack. 
You  won't  forget — some  day  you  will  come  back 

To  Donegal ! " 

Years  passed — again  I  found  me  on  the  strand, 
And  I  was  just  a  boy  once  more — unmanned, 

Bare  feet  and  all; 
I  sighted  for  Mary  as  in  days  of  yore, 
But  whispering  waves  made  answer, 
"Nevermore!" 

In  Donegal. 

103 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

Molly 

H,  Molly,  dear  Molly, 
I  'm  feelin*  quite  jolly, 
Your  dear  little,  sweet  little  letter  to  me 
Has  only  just  reached  me: 
Once  more  you've  beseeched  me 
To  come  back  to  Erin,  dear  Molly,  and  thee. 

Chorus 

Oh,  Molly,  darlin*  blue-eyed  Molly, 

I  'm  happy  as  an  Irish  lad  can  be ; 

Sure  it  's  money  that  I  'm  makin', 
An'  the  steamer  soon  I  'm  takjn', 

Dear  Molly,  I  am  comin'  back  to  thee. 

Dear  Molly,  I  'm  merry 

With  thoughts  of  old  Derry, 
An'  up  on  the  wall  a  fair  picture  I  see : 

That  night  when  we  parted 

You  made  me  light-hearted — 
You  said  you'd  be  waitin'  an'  watchin'  for  me. 

Chorus 

Oh,  Molly,  darlin'  blue-eyed  Molly, 
I  *m  happy  as  an  Irish  lad  can  be ; 

104 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

Sure  it 's  money  that  I  'm  makin', 
An'  the  steamer  soon  I  'm  takin', 
Dear  Molly,  I  am  comin'  back  to  thee. 

God  bless  the  old  mother, 

On  earth  there's  no  other 
Whose  prayers  I  can  feel  and  whose  tears  I  can  see. 

Such  love  none  can  measure — 

Our  mother,  our  treasure 
Will  always  be  happy  with  Molly  an'  me. 

Last  Chorus 

Look  for  me,  darlin'  faithful  Molly ; 

The  ship  will  soon  be  sailin',  love,  with  me. 
An'  the  money  that  I  'm  bringin' 
Sure  will  keep  the  kittle  singin' 

For  mother,  Jack  an'  Molly  'cross  the  sea. 


105 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

The  Irish  Lover 

MLEFT  a  little  colleen  in  the  isle  beyond  the  sea — 
A  pretty  blue-eyed  maiden,  who  is  all  in  all 

to  me. 

And  as  her  tears  were  fallin',  across  the  waters  callin', 
She  said,  "Oh  don't  forget  your  other  heart  is  waitin'." 

Chorus 

Sure  you're  a  part  of  me,  Rosie,  sweetheart  of  me, 
Rosie  the  pride  of  me,  bride  of  me  heart ; 

I  will  be  true  for  you,  what  won't  I  do  for  you, 
Never,  oh,  never  again  shall  we  part. 

Her  letter  I  've  been  readin'  an'  it 's  blurred  across 

with  tears. 
"Sure,  Teddy  dear,  it  seems  as  if  you're  gone  a  dozen 

years. 

But  don't  ye  be  uneasy  for  I  have  n't  any  fears ; 
You  won't  forget  your  other  heart  is  waitin'. " 

Chorus 

Sure  you  're  a  part  of  me,  Rosie,  sweetheart  of  me, 
Rosie  the  pride  of  me,  bride  of  me  heart. 

I  will  be  true  for  you,  what  won't  I  do  for  you, 
Never,  oh,  never  again  shall  we  part. 

106 


THE      BRON-CHO     BOOK 

The  ship  will  soon  be  sailin',  an*  I  'm  comin'  back, 

ashore. 
I  'm  comin'  with  your  passage  an'  I  've  got  a  good 

dale  more ; 
I  've  got  a  pretty  cottage,  an*  there 's  room  enough 

for  four, 
So  darlin',  I  won't  keep  ye  longer  waitin'. 

Chorus 

Sure  I  have  two  hearts,  they're  both  of  them  true  hearts, 

One  is  me  own  and  the  other  is  yours ; 
I  know  mine  is  lovin'  ye,  sure  yours  is  lovin'  me 

An'  drawin'  me  back  to  old  Erin's  green  shores. 


A  Tribute  to  Father  Judge 

HRIST  died  for  men  and  so 

did  he — 
The  sweetest  soul  I  ever  knew, 
And  when  he  grasped  the  hand  of  me, 

His  honest  laughing  eyes  of  blue 
Dispelled  the  clouds  from  out  my  sky, 
And  warmed  the  chill  from  off  my  heart ; 
And  when  it  comes  my  time  to  die 
I  pray  we  won't  be  far  apart. 

107 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

But  if  there  is  a  gulf  between 

The  Father  and  the  wayward  stray, 
His  love  will  tell  what  might  have  been, 

And  Christ  will  open  up  the  way. 
And  true  as  there 's  a  God  above 

I  know  with  all  my  heart  and  soul 
That  all  who  suffer  for  the  love 

Of  truth,  will  reach  the  heavenly  goal. 


Not  for  a  creed  or  circumstance 

Would  he  a  helping  hand  refuse ; 
Nor  pomp,  nor  power,  nor  great  finance 

Could  change  his  broad  and  noble  views. 
He  saw  his  duty.  Who  can  tell 

How  much  we  loved  him  in  the  West? 
But  He,  who  doeth  all  things  well, 

To  his  tired  soul  had  whispered,  "Rest." 


When  last  I  gazed  into  his  face — 

His  dear,  dead  face,  so  truly  kind, 
A  halo  seemed  to  light  the  place, 

For  God  had  left  the  smile  behind. 
And  hardy  miners  bowed  their  heads 

And  felons  wiped  a  tear  away, 
And  fever  patients  in  their  beds 

Were  conscious  of  a  loss  that  day. 

108 


THE      BRONCHO     BOOK 

God's  martyr — His  adopted  son — 

He  died,  dear  friends,  for  you  and  me ; 
He  surely  died  as  Christ  had  done 

In  love,  in  truth,  in  poverty. 
I  crave  not  wealth  nor  care  for  fame, 

Nor  wealth  nor  fame  do  I  begrudge, 
But,  Lord,  permit  me  once  again 

To  clasp  the  hand  of  Father  Judge. 


When  Ben  King  Died 

^fc*  ROM  out  the  sunny,  flowery  South 

The  fateful  message  swiftly  sped, 
And  quickly  flew  from  mouth  to  mouth 
In  trembling  tones,  "Ben  King  is  dead!" 
As  thunder  from  the  clearest  sky 

It  came,  and  no  one  tried  to  hide 
The  tears  which  trembled  in  each  eye 
When  Ben  King  died. 

His  last  soft-spoken,  low  farewell 

Yet  echoing  lingered  in  our  ears, 
When  came  the  wire-flashed  words  to  tell 

The  story  of  his  death,  and  tears 

109 


THE      B  R  O  N  C  HOB  O  O  K 

Welled  up  in  eyes  unused  to  weep, 

As  spray  from  love's  soft-rolling  tide, 
For  one  we  loved  sank  into  sleep 
When  Ben  King  died. 

Just  stepping  forth  with  timid  feet 
Into  the  flowery  paths  of  fame, 

Just  tasting  of  the  waters  sweet 

Which  from  the  living  fountains  came, 

When  plashings  of  the  boatman's  oar 
Came  softly  o'er  the  mystic  tide — 

A  gentle  spirit  left  the  shore 
When  Ben  King  died. 

Full  many  a  face  grown  sad  with  pain, 
Full  many  a  heart  grown  tired  of  earth 

Glowed  with  the  light  of  hope  again 
Beneath  the  flashings  of  his  mirth. 

The  homely  rhymes  he  held  so  dear, 
The  music-freaks  which  were  his  pride 

Again  came  to  us,  quaint  and  queer, 
When  Ben  King  died. 

How  sweet  the  one  consoling  thought 
That  when  the  summons  came  to  Ben 

His  passing  over  was  not  fraught 
With  pangs  of  misery  and  pain, 
no 


H  E      BRONCHO      BOOK 

An  angel  came  with  soothing  hand 

And  brushed  the  pains  of  death  aside, 
And  led  the  soul  to  Spiritland 
When  Ben  King  died. 

No  trusting  babe  by  tender  hand 
Clasped  to  a  loving  mother's  breast 

E'er  sought  the  shores  of  Slumberland 
More  sweetly  than  he  sank  to  rest. 

No  pain-clouds  hung  above  his  bier, 
No  suffering  his  spirit  tried, 

No  fiend  of  torture  hovered  near 
When  Ben  King  died. 

But  in  the  peaceful  calm  of  night, 
When  beacon  stars  hung  in  the  sky, 

His  gentle  spirit  plumed  its  flight 
To  realms  of  endless  bliss  on  high. 

No  anguished  cries  or  sobs  subdued 
From  stricken  hearts  anear  his  side, 

But  all  was  peace  and  quietude 
When  Ben  King  died. 

If  it  should  be  that  clouds  of  care 
At  times  o'ershadow  souls  in  heaven, 

And  if  'neath  mirth's  heart-warming  glare 
The  woe  from  stricken  hearts  is  driven — 

If  humor  there  can  banish  pain, 
And  sweep  the  mists  of  grief  aside, 
111 


THE      BRONCHO     BOOK 

Then  our  deep  loss  was  heaven's  gain 
When  Ben  King  died. 

I 

Jane 

>OME,  mother,  put  your  knittin'  down;  you've 

done  enough  to-night; 
It  is  n't  good  for  them  old  eyes  to  work 

by  candlelight. 

They  ain't  as  flashy  as  they  was  some  thirty  years  ago 
When  at  the  old  red  meetin'  house  I  first  became 

your  beau. 

The  big  pertracted  meetin'  was  a-runnin'  at  the  time, 
An'  Preacher  Giles'  sermons  jist  a-makin'  sinners 

climb ; 
The  mourners'  benches  would  n't  hold  the  crowds 

that  forward  went 

To  seek  salvation  from  the  Lord  and  o'er  their  sins 
lament. 

Up  in  the  "amen  corner"  you  would  always  take 

your  seat, 

An'  jine  in  with  the  singin'  in  a  voice  so  master  sweet 
That  of 'entimes  I  've  shet  my  eyes,  and  half  imagined 

you 

War  act'ally  an  angel  sent  to  help  the  meetin'  through 

112 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

I  vum,  but  how  "Amazin*   Grace"   a-rollin' 

from  your  lips 
Would  make  me  feel  like  I  war  'witched,  cl'ar 

to  the  finger-tips. 
An'  "Sinner  Turn,  Why  Will  Ye  Die,"  you  sung 

so  feelin'ly, 
I  swow  it  made  me  think  you  sung  especially  at  me. 

I  reckon  for  a  dozen  nights  I  sot  back  near  the  door, 
An'  when  the  benediction  come,  I  'd  sweat  from  every 

pore 

Because  I  had  detarmined  fur  to  offer  you  my  arm, 
An'  ax  if  I  might  see  you  home,  acrost  your  father's 

farm; 
But  when  I  'd  take  my  place  in  line  outside  the  little 

church, 
An'  see  you  comin'  through  the  door,  my  heart  'd 

give  a  lurch, 
An'  thar'  I'd  stand  dumb  as  a  fool,  an'  swaller 

at  the  chokes, 
Till  you  war  half-way  down  the  lane  along  with  all 

your  folks. 

I  swan  to  goodness,  mother,  if  it  does  n't  make  me 

laugh 
To  think  o'  me  a-standin'  thar',  a  great  big  bashful 

calf, 

113 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

Without  a  spark  o'  courage  fur  to  make  a  move, 

although 
I  did  n't  think  you  'd  sack  me,  fur  you  had  no  other 

beau. 

But  one  night,  I  remember,  I  war  sittin'  in  the  rear, 
When  Cyrus  Hawkins  nudged  my  arm,  an'  whispered 

in  my  ear, 
"  Jist  watch  me  w'en  the  meetin  's  out  an'  you  will  see 

a  sight — 
I  'm  goin'  to  ax  Jane  Hall  if  I  can  beau  her  home 

to-night. " 

Jemina  crickets !  but  them  words  jist  cut  me  like  a  dart, 
An'  it  war  all  that  I  could  do  to  swaller  down  my  heart ; 
An'  then  an'  there  I  silent  vowed  that  I  would  be  a  lout 
To  let  that  slouchy,  freckled  fool  step  in  an'  cut  me  out. 
So  when  the  old  doxology  were  being  sung,  I  crep' 
Outside  ahead  of  all  the  rest  an'  stood  upon  the  step, 
An'  when  I  staggered  up  to  you,  a-wobblin' 

in  the  knees, 
You  tuk  my  arm  an'  off  we  went  as  cosy  as  you  please. 

Do  you  remember,  mother,  how  I  never  spoke  a  word 
Till  we  war  nearly  half-way  home?  I  swow  it  was 

absurd — 

But  then  I  'd  never  had  a  gal  hitched  to  me  that-a-way, 
And  I  '11  be  blest  if  I  could  think  of  anything  to  say. 

114 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

'T  war  you  as  broke  the  solitude,  an'  tried  to  start 
the  talk, 

Observin'  't  war  a  lovely  night,  an'  splendid  fur  a  walk, 

An'  if  my  memory  sarves  me  right  my  'tarnal  bashful- 
ness 

Condensed  my  answer  to  a  sort  o'  whispered,  half- 
skeered  "Yes." 


Well,  mother,  't  war  a  funny  start,  but  bless  the  Lord 

above, 

It  ended  in  a  double  case  of  unresistful  love — 
When  we  got  more  acquainted  I  expect  I  talked  as  good 
As  any  love-sick  country  boy  in  our  whole  neighbor 
hood. 

An'  arter  the  revival  broke  I  did  n't  stand  no  more 
An'  wait  fur  you,  proud  as  a  king,  outside  the  church's 

door; 

But  then  that  did  n't  break  us  off,  not  by  a  plagey  sight 
Because  I  went  a-courtin'  you  most  every  Sunday  night. 


An',  mother,  do  you  mind  that  blessed  day  in  early 

Spring, 
When  the  bees  begun  to  hum  around  an'  birds  begun 

to  sing? 

I  found  you  in  the  pastur'  lot  a  milkin',  an'  I  told 
The  story  of  the  burnin'  love  that  in  my  bosom  rolled. 

115 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

Jee-whiz !  but  how  the  milk  did  fly ;  you  squeezed 

so  'tarnal  hard 
The  heifer  kicked  the  bucket  nearly  half  acrost 

the  yard! 

An'  when  I  fetched  it  back  agin  an'  tuk  you  by  the  hand, 
Your  look  made  me  the  happiest  man  in  all  this  Yankee 

land. 

Fur  thirty  years  we  have  jogged  along  the  rugged  road 

of  life, 

An',  mother,  you  have  bin  to  me  a  true  and  noble  wife — 
Our  old  revival  meetin'  love  haint  flickered  out  a  bit, 
An'  though  we  're  gettin'  old  an'  gray,  we  're  them 

same  lovers  yit. 
Your  kisses  now  are  just  as  sweet,  an'  full  of  heavenly 

dew, 
As  them  you  give  me  at  the  gate  when  I  war  courtin' 

you; 

An*  we  will  still  be  lovers  when  I  clasp  you  to  my  breast, 
"Whar'  the  wicked  cease  from  troublin',  an'  the  weary 

are  at  rest." 


116 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

The  True  Story  of  Marching  Through  Georgia 

£  never  found  a  chicken  that  could  roost  out 

of  our  reach, 
We  seldom  had  a  chaplain  that  could  find 
the  time  to  preach. 

We  never  saw  a  soldier  pass  a  shirt  hung  out  to  bleach, 
As  we  went  marching  through  Georgia. 

Oh,  how  we  used  to  toil  along  right  through  the  swamps 

and  bogs, 

And  how  the  ladies  blushed  at  our  dilapidated  togs. 
And  how  we  showed  our  bravery  assassinating  hogs, 

As  we  went  marching  through  Georgia. 

When  charging  on  a  chicken  roost,  the  rebel  girls  cried 

"Shame!" 
And  said  our  actions  would  disgrace  the  soldiers' 

honored  name. 
They  came  at  us  with  clubs  and  dogs,  but  we  got  there 

just  the  same, 

As  we  went  marching  through  Georgia. 

When  coming  in  from  foraging  sometimes  we  would 

get  caught, 
The  colonel  then  would  paw  the  ground  and  swear 

he  'd  have  us  shot, 

117 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

And  then  he  'd  eye  our  captured  fowls  and  fine  us  half 
we  got, 
As  we  went  marching  through  Georgia. 

When  ordered  up  some  earthwork,  or  some  battery 

to  take, 
I  've  seen  some  heavy  charges,  that  caused  the  earth 

to  quake, 
They  were  nothing  to  the  charges  the  sutlers  used 

to  make, 

As  we  were  marching  through  Georgia. 


I 


A  Modest  Man 

«'M  a  mild  and  modest  man,  I  am,  indeed, 
And  they  tell  me  that  I  never  will  succeed. 
So  I  thought  I  'd  have  a  try 
And  find  out  the  reason  why, 
I  could  never  hit  a  pay-streak  or  a  lead. 

Well,  I  went  to  New  York  City  on  a  trip, 
I  had  always  thought  that  I  was  pretty  flip. 
It  looked  to  me  quite  flow  'ry— 
This  good  thing  on  the  Bow  'ry, 
But  I  lost  a  hundred  dollars  at  a  clip. 

118 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

Then  I  went  to  the  Fifth  Avenue  Hotel, 
With  a  million-dollar  mine  I  had  to  sell. 
Showed  the  gold  sand  in  a  rocker — 
The  sharks  they  tried  to  stock  her, 
But  I  winked  the  other  eye  and  thought  a  spell. 

For  that  mine  was  worth  a  million,  don't  you  see, 
And  quite  suddenly  the  thought  occured  to  me, 

It's  only  worth  a  million — 

They'd  stock  it  for  a  billion — 
Then  a  nigger 's  somewhere  hidden  in  the  tree. 

So  I  pulled  my  freight  and  struck  the  western  trail 
And  to-day  that  big  bonanza  ain't  for  sale. 

I've  found  a  little  money — 

I  'm  combing  up  the  honey, 
And  the  crocodiles  and  sharks  can  go  to  jail. 


119 


THE      BRONCHO      BOO* 


The  Reporter 

ON'T  turn  him  down — don't  scare 

and  fret, 
But  greet  him  with  a  shake 

and  smile; 

And  if  you  're  proper  stuff,  you  '11  get 
What's  coming  to  you,  and  you  bet 
He'll  do  you  justice  all  the  while. 

But  if  you're  tough — though  debonair 
And  dainty  in  your  style  of  dress — 
And  if  you  meet  him  with  a  glare, 
And  undertake  to  shed  some  swear, 

And  say  you've  nothing  to  confess — 

Well,  say!  he'll  skin  you  every  clip, 

And  smooth  you  down  as  slick  as  wax ; 

And  with  his  oily,  practised  lip, 

He'll  surely  get  you  on  the  hip, 
And  on  you  grind  his  little  axe ! 

But  if  you'll  only  reason  right: 

Perhaps  he  wants  to  make  a  scoop, 

And  you  can  help  him  in  his  flight — 

He  needs  more  tail  to  fly  his  kite, 

Why,  get  in  with  him — loop  the  loop! 
120 


HE      BRONCHO      BOOK 


Just  give  it  to  him,  right  offhand, 

Because  he 's  bound  to  get  it — see? 
The  whole  world  is  his  grand  stand — 
He  won't  be  left  nor  balked  nor  fanned 
By  tenderfoot  like  you  or  me. 

And  thus  you  find  him  every  day, 

With  bulldog  grit  and  lots  of  gall ; 
And  when  he  comes,  he  comes  to  stay, 
And  every  shot's  a  grand-stand  play; 
"Don't  chew  the  rag — play  ball!" 


A  Memory 
When  Bill  Nye  come  to  Higginsport 

1|^|  AP  read  it  in  the  Weekly  Spear 

To  all  us  folks  not  long  ago, 
'At  ol'  Bill  Nye  was  comin'  here 
To  give  his  great  unequalled  show ; 
An'  then  he  sort  o'  laffed  an'  said 

'At  folks  'd  git  their  money's  worth, 
Fur  he  would  bet  his  bottom  red 
It  was  the  greatest  show  on  earth. 
121 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

Then  all  us  boys  just  buckled  down 

To  make  enough  to  take  us  in, 
A-doin'  chores  around  the  town — 

By  jinks,  we  worked  like  mortal  sin 
A-choppin'  wood  an'  shovelin'  snow, 

An'  doin'  jobs  of  every  sort, 
Fur  we  was  bound  to  see  the  show 

When  Bill  Nye  come  to  Higginsport. 


Pap  said  he  was  the  queerest  cuss 

'At  ever  breathed  the  atmosphere, 
An'  showed  his  photygraf  to  us, 

Tuk  just  a  purpose  fur  the  Spear. 
By  jucks,  we  all  jest  laughed  outright, 

An'  mam,  she  belt  her  sides  an'  squealed — 
On  top  his  head  was  jest  as  white 

As  any  'tater  ever  peeled. 


Pap  said  'at  Bill  was  in  the  war, 

But  never  had  to  march  a  bit — 
They  had  'im  in  the  signal  corps. 

An'  when  they  thought  't  was  time  to  quit 
The  fightin'  fur  a  while,  pap  said, 

They  'd  fetch  'im  out  an'  turn  'im  loose, 
An'  when  the  rebels  seed  his  head 

They  'd  know  it  was  a  flag  o'  truce. 
122 


;THE    BRONCHO    B  o  o  K 

Pap  said  'at  once  a  big  cyclone 

Come  howlin*  'round  where  Bill  was  at, 
An'  he  jest  stood  up  on  a  stone 

An'  lifted  up  his  ol'  white  hat. 
The  cyclone  stopped  an'  fetched  a  yell, 

Then  had  a  awful  laughin'  fit, 
An'  somehow  tuckered  out  until 

It  could  n't  blow  another  bit. 


When  pap  an'  mam  an'  sis  an'  me 

Went  down  to  Parker's  Publick  Hall, 
I  honest  was  afraid  'at  we 

Could  never  git  inside  at  all. 
It  beat  camp-meeting  times  the  way 

The  folks  was  crowdin'  at  the  door — 
I  never  seed  a  circus  day 

Wake  up  the  town  like  that  afore. 


The  folks  inside  was  mighty  nigh 

Like  sheep  a-cuddlin'  in  the  storm, 
But  I  pushed  through  up  close  where  I 

Could  see  the  funny  cuss  perform. 
But  goshamighty!  wa'n't  I  sold 

When  Mister  Nye  come  out  to  act, 
Fur  all  the  stories  Pap  had  told 

Were  forty  million  miles  from  fact. 

123 


He  did  n't  wear  show  clothes  at  all, 

He  did  n't  dance,  he  did  n't  sing, 
His  doin's  was  n't  what  I  'd  call 

A  public  show  at  all,  by  jing ; 
He  had  n't  one  dissolvin'  view, 

He  did  n't  on  the  tight  rope  walk — 
I  swear  to  gosh  he  did  n't  do 

A  'tarnal  thing  but  grin  an'  talk. 


Dot  Little  Crippled  Boy  Vot  Died 


An  old  German  Cobbler  in  the  coal  fields  grieving  over 
the  death  of  a  little  orphan  cripple  boy  to  whom  he 
became  very  much  attached. 


^f   DOND  vas  feelin*  good  von  bit, 

A  great  big  lump  vas  in  my  neck, 
Und  ven  I  try  to  svaller  it, 
It  seems  yust  like  my  heart  would  break ; 
Sometimes  my  eyes  vas  like  a  spoud 

Mit  tears  I  somehow  dond  could  hide, 
Und  I  yust  sit  and  fret  aboud 
Dot  little  cripple  boy  vot  died. 

124 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

He  used  to  come  my  shoe-shop  in 

Und  vatch  me  ven  I  drive  dem  pegs. 
Und  it  yust  make  my  heart  ache  ven 

I  see  dem  little  crippled  legs. 
But  he  vas  always  schmilin'  mit 

Dem  big  blue  eyes  so  open  vide, 
Und  nefer  mind  dot  pain  von  bit, 

Dot  little  crippled  boy  vot  died. 


I  tol'  'im  Deutschland  stories,  und 

He  laugh  yust  like  dem  angel  dings, 
Vot  mit  der  picture  books  go  'round 

Up  yonder  mit  der  schnow  vite  vings ; 
Und  now  my  eyes  vas  all  in  schwim 

Mit  tear-drops  dot  I  dond  could  hide, 
Because  I  got  some  love  mit  him, 

Dot  little  crippled  boy  vot  died. 

Some  day  he  dond  vould  come,  und  den 

I  feel  all  ofer  black  mit  blue. 
Und  sighs  vould  shake  my  bosom  ven 

I  tried  to  cobble  mit  a  shoe. 
Den  I  vould  go  out  by  my  door 

Und  look  aboud  mit  efery  side, 
My  old  heart  yust  was  achin'  for 

Dot  little  crippled  boy  vot  died. 

125 


THE      B  R  O  N  C  H  O     BOO  H 

Vun  time  he  dond  vas  come  for  more 

As  most  a  veek — I  dond  know  vy— 
Und  von  day  standin'  mit  my  door 

I  see  some  funerals  go  by. 
I  ask  von  little  bootblack  who 

In  dot  vite  hearse  vas  took  a  ride; 
Und  he  say,  "Dutchy,  dond  you  know 

Dot  little  cripple  boy  vas  died?" 


It  feeled  yust  like  my  heart  vas  sick, 

Und  nefer  vant  to  beat  some  more. 
I  glose  my  shop  up  pooty  quick, 

Und  hang  some  black  stuff  mit  der  door. 
Und  den  I  t'ink,  "Some  day  I  go 

Mit  angels  by  dot  other  side, 
Und  how  den  vas  I  goin'  to.  know 

Dot  little  crippled  boy  vot  died?" 


Dose  little  legs  vill  all  be  straight 

In  dot  bright  land  so  far  away, 
Und  ven  I  go  in  by  der  gate, 

Vere  all  der  little  angels  blay, 
I  vonder  if  I  find  him  oud. 

Maybe  he  run  avay  und  hide ; 
Veil  I  dond  t'ink  I  shtay  midoud 

Dot  little  crippled  boy  vot  died. 

126 


r  H  E      BRONCHO      BOOK 

The  Mountain  Boy's  Letter 


EAR  Giner'l  :- 

I  ain't  no  great  schollar, 

An'  I  never  done  nothin'  to  brag, 
'Cept  this,  I  was  one  of  the  outfit 

As  fought  for  our  Star-Spangled  Flag. 
An'  to-day,  while  yer  toasted  by  schollars, 

An'  big  guns  as  make  a  great  noise, 
Why,  I  thought  it  the  square  thing  to  write  yer 
An'  clip  in  a  word  from  the  boys. 


Cos,  yer  see,  we  ain't  got  the  collat'r'l, 

Nor  the  larnin'  to  dish  it  up  right ; 
But  you  '11  find  should  thar'  be  any  trouble, 

Our  boys  are  still  ready  to  fight. 
As  fur  you,  if  they  did  n't  corral  yer, 

You'd  shake  comrades'  hands  that  you  seed, 
An'  that 's  why  I  wanted  to  tell  yer 

We  '11  jest  take  the  word  fur  the  deed. 


But  y're  back,  and  the  men  of  all  nations 
War  proud  to  do  honor  to  you, 

An'  I  reckon,  Ulysses,  yer  told  'em, 
Ye  wor  proud  o'  yer  comrades  in  blue, 

127 


THE      BRONCHO      BOO 

For  you,  we  are  sure,  of  all  others, 
Remembered  our  boys  in  the  ranks, 

Who  follered  ye  into  the  battle, 
An'  gallantly  guarded  the  flanks. 

So  welcome,  a  thousand  times,  welcome; 

Our  land  is  ablaze  with  delight; 
Our  people  give  thanks  for  yer  safety — 

Your  comrades  are  happy  to-night. 
We  know  you  are  weary  an'  tuckered, 

But  seein'  as  you  're  a  newcomer, 
You  '11  Grant  us  one  glance  on  this  line,  if 

In  reading,  it  takes  yer  all  summer. 


Heard  in  the  Cane-Brake 

0'  de  Lord,  I 's  gwine  ter  hustle, 

I's  a-pullin'  fo'  de  shore, 
Whar'  de  bridegroom  am  a-waitin' 
Fo'  to  tote  de  shif 'less  o'er ; 
Whar'  de  weary  am  a-restin', 

An'  dar's  sorrow  never  mo', 
On  de  othah  side  ob  Jordan  in  de  mawnin'. 

128 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 


Oh,  dar  ain't  no  automobiles 

In  de  Hallelujah  Lan', 
Whar'  Jehovah's  golden  chariot 

Am  a-rollin'  through  de  san' ; 
Whar'  de  bressed  Lawd  am  waitin' 

Fo'  to  take  you  by  de  han', 
On  de  othah  side  ob  Jordan  in  de  mawnin'. 

Hallelujah!  fo'  de  streets  ob  gold, 

Whar'  night  am  lak'  de  day, 
Hallelujah!  fo'  dem  golden  harps 

On  which  dem  angels  play, 
Hallelujah !  fo'  de  Lam'  ob  God 

Dat  wash  mah  sins  away, 
On  de  othah  side  ob  Jordan  in  de  mawnin'. 


The  Elk  and  His  Mission 

COME  stately  stepping,  noble,  grand 
f  And  lordly  Elk,  and  take  command ; 

For  truly  thou  art  king  and  head 
Of  every  other  quadruped 
That  ever  stalked  the  forests  wild, 
Or  roamed  the  plains  from  tide  to  tide. 
A  thousand  thousand  bear  thy  name, 
Nor  half  so  pure,  nor  near  so  tame 

129 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

As  thou,  Oh  Monarch  of  our  land ! 
And  I,  a  broncho  in  the  band, 
Humble,  but  having  followed  you, 
I  would  be  honest,  brave  and  true ; 
With  head  erect  and  eyes  aglow, 
With  that  fraternal  overflow 
That  comes  to  irrigate  the  soul 
When  Mother  Nature  has  control. 
I  feel  her  touch,  I  catch  the  strain, 
And  I  am  with  her  once  again. 

Let  's  take  a  faltering  brother's  hand, 
And  when  he  fails  to  understand 
The  blessings — "sometimes  in  disguise" — 
The  blanks  that  oft  precede  the  prize, 
That  come  to  test  his  fitness  for 
Some  mighty  trust,  some  mission,  or 
Some  greater  struggle,  when  the  test 
Will  rack  the  soul  and  spoil  his  rest ; 
Ah !  then 's  the  time  to  take  his  hand 
And  try  to  make  him  understand. 

And  when  at  last  he  sees  the  light 
Through  gloomy  caverns  of  the  night, 
And  glints  of  gladness  glorifies 
The  soul  that 's  peeping  through  his  eyes, 
Sometimes  a  word,  a  look,  a  smile, 
Will  tell  you  it  was  worth  the  while. 

130 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

He  sees  the  sunshine  through  the  tears, 
He  laughs  at  all  his  fretful  fears, 
And  thanks  the  great  Exalted,  who 
Has  made  him  brave  and  strong  and  true ; 
And  when  his  eyes  are  clear  of  mist, 
He  finds  the  rod  that  he  has  kissed 
Upholding  him,  and  points  the  way 
To  help  some  other  wayward  stray 
Adrift  upon  the  Sea  of  Sorrow — 
And  points  him  to  a  brighter  morrow. 


Captain  Jack's  Tribute  to  Chicago 

AY,  Chicago,  you're  a  daisy, 
Openin'  the  people's  eyes; 
An'  a-settin'  of  'em  crazy 
With  your  'tarnal  enterprise. 
Seems  as  though  you're  never  snoozin', 

Always  in  a  rushin'  stew ; 
An'  etarnally  a-cruisin' 

'Round  fur  somethin'  else  to  do. 

When  a  sea  o'  fire  come  creepin' 

Like  a  tidal  wave  o'  hell, 
All  your  royal  grandeur  sweepin' 

From  the  earth ;  an'  when  the  knell 

131 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

Of  your  death  war  still  a-soundin' 
Through  the  press  the  country  'round, 

To  the  front  you  come  a-boundin', 

Somewhat  scorched,  but  never  downed. 

You  just  looked  upon  the  ruins 

With  a  sort  o'  sickly  smile ; 
Swore  a  little  at  the  doin's 

0*  the  hungry  flames;  an'  while 
Banks  o'  smoke  war'  yit  a-lurkin' 

Whar'  the  fire  had  made  its  play, 
You  had  architects  a-workin' 

On  the  city  of  to-day. 

When  you  tried  to  make  a  dicker 

For  the  great  Columby  Fair, 
How  some  Eastern  towns  did  snicker 

At  the  gall  you  had,  to  dare 
Fur  to  stake  your  bottom  dollar 

With  them  settin'  in  the  game ; 
But  you  let  'em  whoop  and  holler, 

An'  you  got  thar',  just  the  same. 

An',  by  jinks !  you  masticated 
All  the  monstrous  bite  you  tuk, 

While  your  rivals  stood  an'  waited 
Fur  to  see  you  gittin'  stuck. 

132 


H  E      BRONCHO      BOOK 


Now  they  stand  an'  gaze  in  wonder, 
Fur  they're  mightily  perplexed; 

An'  they're  axin',  "What  in  thunder 
Is  she  goin'  to  give  us  next?" 


To  the  Daughter  of  General  John  B.  Gordon 

AIR  daughter  of  a  noble  Sire, 

I  thank  thee  from  my  very  soul; 
And  all  I  wish  for  or  desire, 
The  height  to  which  I  would  aspire, 
Is  where  he  signs  God's  muster  roll. 

For  men  are  few  who  died  like  him 

And  men  are  few  who  lived  so  pure, 
But  they  who  try  to  follow  him 
With  truth  their  motto,  lamps  all  trim, 
Will  read  their  title  clear,  I  'm  sure. 

And  yonder  where  eternal  peace 

And  love  shall  reign  forever  more, 
The  man  who  said,  "Let  us  have  peace," 
And  he  who  said  that,  "War  must  cease," 
Are  comrades  on  the  other  shore. 

133 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

God!  how  I  pity  those  who  hate 

The  bravest  of  the  blue  and  gray, 
And  fearlessly  I  dare  to  state 
That  such  as  they  were  always  late 
Or  from  the  battle  far  away. 

God  bless  the  "reb"  that  shot  me  down, 

The  very  thought  rolls  out  a  tear, 
For  such  as  he  will  wear  a  crown 
While  Hell  will  do  the  coward  brown 
Who  did  his  righting  in  the  rear. 

Sweet  daughter  of  my  noble  friend, 

Among  the  "Yanks"  in  Hampshire's  hills, 

Besides  the  simple  verses  penned, 

These  honest  sentiments  I  send 
With  no  aristocratic  frills. 


Our  Country,  more  than  ever  blessed, 
Our  Flag  by  North  and  South  caressed, 
One  purpose  that  our  love  increase, 
For  Truth  and  everlasting  Peace. 


134 


'HE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

To  One  of  God's  Queens 
Mrs.  W.  T.  K. 

HEN  first  I  took  your  hand 

in  mine, 

And  looking  in  your  eyes 
to  see, 

A  something  there  almost  divine, 
Was  pictured  in  the  soul  of  me ; 
And  as  you  whispered  sweet  and  low, 
"The  boys  will  bless  you  and  rejoice, 
Because  of  love  that  you  bestow," 
I  thought  I  heard  my  mother's  voice. 

And  as  the  balmy  days  were  spent, 

In  praise  and  prayer  and  soulful  song, 
My  heart  was  full,  and  sweet  content 

Lit  up  my  soul  and  made  me  strong ; 
And  when  I  saw  upon  your  cheek, 

A  mirrored  gem  a-sparkle  there, 
I  surely  heard  an  angel  speak, 

And  saw  my  mother's  face  so  fair. 

God  bless  you,  dear,  kind,  gentle  soul ! 

If  He  should  call  you  ere  I  go, 
As  through  the  Pearly  Gates  you  stroll, 

You  '11  meet  my  mother  there,  I  know ; 

135 


THE      BRONCHO      BOO« 

And  she  will  surely  show  you  through 
The  Lord's  domain,  and  give  you  joy, 

Because  of  friendship  pure  and  true 
You  gave  to  her  wild  wayward  boy. 


Old  Glory 

BEAUTIFUL  emblem  of  Liberty's  tree! 

0  Star-Spangled  Gem  of  the  Land  of  the  Free 

1  love  thee,  Old  Glory,  with  love  that 's  as  tru« 
And  as  pure  as  the  stars  in  thy  heavenly  blue. 
There 's  no  flag  like  my  flag ;  there 's  no  flag  like 

thine, 

0  patriots,  countrymen,  comrades  of  mine! 
'T  is  kissed  by  God's  breezes,  by  angels  caressed, 
Beloved  by  the  North,  by  the  South,  East  and  West, 
And  each  brilliant  star  shooting  out  when  unfurled 
Sends  flashes  of  hope  to  the  oppressed  of  the  world. 


136 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 
Woman's  Influence 

To  Mrs.  M.  M.  B. 

EAR  Friend,  what  a  halo  of  sunshine  and  glory 
Your  womanly  wisdom  has  wove  in  my  soul. 
With  clear  intuition  you  brought  out  my  story, 
And  somehow  my  life  seemed  just  then  to  unroll. 
Thank  God  for  the  love-light  that  sometimes  is  given, 

That  opens  the  windows  of  glory  to  me ; 
That  gives  to  my  peepers  a  glimmer  of  heaven 
And  pours  oil  of  peace  on  a  troublesome  sea. 

Thank  God  for  the  influence— essence  of  sweetness — 

That  reaches  my  soul  with  a  carol  and  thrill ; 
Thank  God  for  the  wonderful  way,  the  completeness 

In  which  He  is  guiding  me  over  life's  hill. 
Oh,  thank  Him,  ye  men,  for  that  moment  of  giving 

A  helpmate  to  guide  your  weak  steps  through 

the  world ; 
For  she  makes  every  moment  more  worthy  of  living 

And  points  to  the  flag  of  ENDEAVOR  unfurled. 

Thank  God  for  the  voices  that  whisper  a  blessing, 
Though  falter  your  feet  over  forbidden  way, 

That  hold  you  and  love  you,  while  praying — caressing, 
And  follow  your  pathway  wherever  it  lay. 

137 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 


So  leaving  our  sorrows  to  heaven's  adjusting, 
Come  stand  on  the  plane  where  no  tempter 

can  dope, 

Where  womanhood  places  us,  loving  and  trusting — 
The    up-turning,    deep-winding    highway 
of  Hope. 


To  My  Winchester 


WEETHEART  of  mine, 
For  years  thy  loyalty  has  proven  true 
As  is  the  steel  of  which  thou  art 

created ; 
There  are  no  fickle  vanities  in  you, 

Thy  constancy  might  well  be  emulated 
By  beauteous  sweetheart  of  a  softer  mold, 
Whose  eyes  gleam  love  on  every  new 

adorer, 

Who  bends  the  pliant  knee  to  god  of  gold 
And  blesses  every  knight  who  bows 
before  her 

At  Cupid's  shrine. 

138 


HE      BRONCHO     BOOK 

My  pretty  pard, 

As  loyal  helpmate  thou  hast  ever  stood 
Facing  with  me  the  dangers  placed  be 
fore  us, 

Faithful  'mid  trying  scenes  of  war  and  blood 
As   when  the   skies   of  peace   shone 

clearly  o'er  us ; 

'Mid  all  the  trying  hours  of  olden  days, 
When  peril  threatened,  thou  hast  never 

failed  me — 
Loyal  wert  thou  in  many  deadly  frays, 

When  painted  foemen  wickedly  assailed  me, 
And  pressed  me  hard. 

Thou  art  not  sweet 
In  disposition  unto  all,  my  dear ; 
To  some  thou  art  most  spiteful  in  thine 

anger — 

Many  have  quailed  in  abject  fright  to  hear 
Thy   ringing   tones   in   war's   resounding 

clangor. 

Although  thy  face  may  gleam  with  polished  smiles, 
Thou  art  a  spitfire  when  the  scene  is 

fitting, 

And  gone  are  all  thy  sweet  coquettish  wiles 
When  foes  with  mine  their  battle  powers 
are  pitting 

In  war's  mad  heat. 

139 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

I  love  thee,  dear, 
And  love  of  loyal  man  was  never  placed 

Upon  a  more  deserving,  true  companion, 
In  Western  wanderings,  when  peril  faced 
Our  daily  life,  on  plain,  in  gloomy 

canyon. 

My  trust  in  thee  has  never  been  betrayed, 
True  as  thy  tempered  steel  I've  always 

found  thee, 

In  scenes  of  danger  I  was  not  afraid 
Though  savage  foemen  lurked  in  rocks 
around  me, 

For  thou  wert  near. 


Come,  dear  one,  fling 
Thy  moody  silence  off,  and  lift  thy  voice 
In  song  as  in  the  days  now  gone 

forever ; 
For  all  the  dangers  past  let  us  rejoice, 

I'll  beat  the  time  with  thy  quick-acting 

lever. 
Sing  in  thy  wildest  tones,  let  not  a  note 

Be  soft  as  note  from  tender  woman, 
Sing  as  thou  didst  when  from  thy  fiery 
throat 

We  hurled  defiance  at  a  foe  inhuman. 
Sing,  sweetheart,  sing! 

140 


THE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

A  Coming  Together  of  Nature  and  Art 

COMING  together  of  Nature  and  Art— 

A  flowing  of  souls,  in  which  all  had  a  part. 

The  twinkling  stars  that  were  clustered  by  you — 
The  real,  unconventional  ring,  that  was  true 
As  the  stars  that  illumined  the  scene  by  their  wit ; 
While  I,  strange  to  say,  was  n't  nervous  a  bit, 
Just  because  Mother  Nature  was  holding  my  hand — 
Dear  old  Mother  Nature — I  well  understand 
The  language  she  taught  me,  when  rocked  on  her 

breast 

Where  the  deer  has  its  home  and  the  eagle  its  nest. 
She  touched  me  so  gently  that  night  with  her  fun, 
That  she  sparkled  with  brilliants,  while  every  one 
Was  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  love  and  good  cheer, 
And  it  seemed  that  my  own  Rocky  Mountains 

were  near, 

With  their  echoes  of  gladness,  the  laughter  of  rills, 
The  songs  of  the  birds  and  the  sun-kissing  hills, 
The  babble  of  brooks  and  the  hum  of  the  bees 
That  joined  in  the  anthem,  atune  with  the  breeze ; 
And  my  soul  was  atune  with  the  gladsome  refrain 
As  I  felt  Mother  Nature  embrace  me  again. 


God  speed  the  Club.  May  each  brilliant  aspire 

To  help  struggling  brothers  and  sisters  up  higher, 

141 


THE      B  R  O  N  C  H  O      BOOK 

To  sprinkle  with  sunshine  the  tortuous  trail, 

To  stand  by  for  action  in  every  gale, 

To  throw  out  the  life-line  when  hope  is  deferred, 

To  strengthen  and  comfort  and  say  a  kind  word 

To  genius  uncultured,  perhaps,  and  uncouth, 

Unknown  and  unnoticed,  neglected  in  youth, 

Yet  dying  for  knowledge — Oh,  stretch  out  a  hand ! 

For  often  the  bashful  were  born  to  command — 

And  Lincoln  and  Sherman,  Grant,  Chaffee  and  Banks 

Were  more  unassuming  than  men  in  the  ranks. 

Yet  it  was  accidents  brought  them  to  light, 

And  old  Mother  Nature  who  branded  them  right; 

And  to-day  on  the  Bowery,  in  poverty's  fangs, 

Are  Loomises,  Johnsons  and  Zangwills  and  Bangs', 

Dear  little  rough  diamonds — decidedly  rough — 

Ask  one  and  he'll  tell  you,  "De  Journal's  de  stuff," 

And  the  hair-lifting  drama,  "Hully  gee,  ain't  dat  slick! 

I  kin  copper  de  story — it's  only  a  nick." 

And  with  soul  all  aglow  and  his  heart  on  a  tear, 

He  reads  of  fake  heroes  and  lifting  of  hair. 

And  here  is  the  field  that  I  'd  lead,  if  I  knew 

That  I  could  get  some  ammunition  from  you ; 


Here  is  the  field  where  your  big  guns  could  play, 
On  the  heartstrings  of  genius  and  level  the  way 
For  a  Christ-like  revival,  more  glorious  and  grand 
Than  ever  was  won  by  the  greatest  command. 

142 


HE      BRONCHO      BOOK 

But  pardon  me,  dear  Mrs.  President,  please, 
Perhaps  you  are  not  interested  in  these 
Tough  little  outlaws ;  but  hear  me,  I  pray, 
For  I  was  a  wild  little  prodigal  stray 
JDeprived  of  the  knowledge  that  books  can  impart, 
Handicapped — misunderstood  from  the  start — 
Longing  for  sympathy;  once  in  a  while 
I  'd  steal  a  concession  and  capture  a  smile, 
And  then  would  my  soul  be  inflated  with  joy — 
I  was  only  a  runaway,  barefooted  boy. 

And  now,  when  the  world  is  beginning  to  smile 
On  Nature's  achievements,  I  think  it  worth  while 
To  offer  to  others  the  lessons  she 's  brought ; 
To  show  the  conditions  experience  has  taught ; 
To  hold  up  the  mirror  that  others  may  look, 
And  find  in  a  broncho  an  excellent  book ; 
'To  thresh  out  the  grain  and  to  scatter  the  chaff; 
To  mellow  their  hearts  with  a  tear  and  a  laugh. 
I  'm  telling  a  story  no  other  can  tell — 
All  my  life  I  've  rehearsed  it,  I  know  it  so  well 
That  I  jump  from  the  Waldorf  and  into  the  mire, 
And  while  I  am  talking  the  boys  never  tire 
Of  the  story — my  story  of  battle  and  strife, 
The  shadows  and  sunshine  of  strenuous  life. 


143 


So  here  then  letteth  up  and  giveth  in  THE  BRONCHO 
BOOK,  being  Buck-Jumps  in  Verse,  by -CAPTAIN 
JACK  CRAWFORD,  q  Turned  into  the  Alfalfa  Field  of 
the  Literary  Blessed  this  Seventh  day  of  June,  MCMVIII 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last 
date  stamped  below 


'••••     : 


. 


ORION 


3m-6,'50(550)470 


THE  LIBKAKi 
LOS  ANGIXSS 


A  A      000034959    7 


